


After

by Teyla_Minh



Series: A Thousand Sweet Kisses [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: & they lived happily ever after, (aren't we all?), (fo'realz this time!), Brienne is a lightweight with lower inhibitions and even lower self-esteem, Brienne is totes emosh because she's exhausted, Canon-Typical Gore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I guess this is a canon divergence now, I tried to fix the drinking game, Jaime and Brienne bickering like Old Marrieds, Jaime is an affectionate and needy drunk, Kissing, Love Confessions, Pod is the best squire a Lady Knight could ask for, Podrick is Brienne's wingman, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Protective Podrick, Soft Brienne, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tyrion is Jaime's wingman, minor/background Sanrion and Jonerys if you squint, most other named characters are brief appearances only but there's a little more of Pod and Tyrion, self-indulgent nonsense written for the author's benefit, soft jaime, they both ship it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23862217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teyla_Minh/pseuds/Teyla_Minh
Summary: Brienne told Jaime there’d be an after.  Now she’s not so sure.A sequel to "Dead of Night" (the previous story in this series). Intended as a short one-shot as per the above summary,  but the story had other ideas, so now it's a post Long Night canon divergence.  If you want softness, angst, H/C and enough fluff to stuff a pillow, come on in!
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: A Thousand Sweet Kisses [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690663
Comments: 27
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, I intended “Dead of Night” to be a one-shot, and then four days later a sequel flung itself fully formed into my head. I anticipated that it would be short, then churned 5000 words out. I am chronically incapable of brevity. 
> 
> I guess this is technically a post-“Long Night” story, set in the same universe as “Dead of Night” – the other side of the battle. It starts out angsty (because apparently I love eking angst out of Long Night aftermaths!) but there’s fluff at the end to make up for it, and it’s soft enough to use as a pillow. (Full disclosure: I was having a bit of an existential crisis before writing this and it served as a catharsis. You can blame that for the angst, I guess.)
> 
> This will not make sense unless you’ve read the previous story; to that end I have linked this as part of my ‘first kiss’ series even though technically it should be part of my season 8 series. (If I could link to both, I would!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy. =)

“You should eat something, Ser.”

Podrick’s voice is oddly distant, like Brienne is underwater or he is trying to converse with her through a solid brick wall. 

He speaks again, the words unclear but his tone concerned. Brienne is very aware of his presence in the chair directly opposite, at the table in her chambers, but his outline is blurred by the flickering orange of her still-blazing hearth, the crackle of the flames slowly taking over her consciousness as she stares dead ahead. She is trying her best to think of nothing at all, because the alternative is too horrifying.

A bowl scrapes across the table towards her, jolting her back to the present, her gaze refocusing on the worried face of her loyal squire. There is an angry-looking scab over his left eye, a myriad other cuts and bruises peppering his face and neck, but his only concern is for Brienne. One of his hands rests against the bowl he has pushed towards her, the other twitching restlessly as though he wants to reach out and touch her in reassurance. He does not quite manage it, his fingers flexing involuntarily and drumming nervously upon the wooden surface.

She blinks, trying to stay alert and prevent her mind from wandering too far when she is not paying attention.

“I’m sorry, Pod. Did you say something?”

He gives her a sympathetic smile.

“The stew, Milady. You should eat it. Build your strength back up.”

She acknowledges him with an absent nod and reaches for the spoon protruding from the bowl, swirling it half-heartedly into the concoction before her. The stew is weak – a meagre portion of meat and vegetables in a watery broth, the best the kitchen can offer for the many exhausted mouths still to feed. The accompanying bread is a day old, stale and chewy. Brienne stirs the bowl’s contents, but the smell of it turns her stomach, mingling with the stench of death and acrid smoke that still lingers everywhere.

She has cleaned up as best as possible – her wounds attended to, her armour and sword abandoned somewhere in the room, fresh clothing upon her battered body which she has scrubbed free of every last remnant of the Long Night – and yet she cannot shake the cloying stink of blood and viscera. The fire is blazing but she is cold to her bones. Her heart beats and her lungs take in air, but she does not feel alive.

Brienne has refused to allow Podrick out of her sight since the fighting stopped, ensuring that his injuries (blessedly few) were tended before even taking stock of her own; she is bruised all over, cuts to her face, blisters and skin rubbed raw from her chafing armour. Trudging back from the battlefield, she felt numb to all of it, until someone had braced against her shoulder to pop it back into place and she had almost passed out from a wave of white-hot pain.

After that, she and Podrick had blindly followed each other to seek some sustenance to appease their growling stomachs, joining a queue of similarly exhausted warriors shuffling towards a great cauldron on a bench. A girl barely approaching her twentieth year – someone’s daughter, sister, wife – had ladled their ration into wooden bowls, her face haunted and her eyes unseeing. Then, they had slowly traipsed back to Brienne’s quarters, to the quiet and the warmth.

And Jaime…

She has not seen Jaime for almost as long as Podrick has been by her side.

—J|B—

_There is silence, in the aftermath: the cacophony of battle suddenly distilling for a second, perhaps two, of quiet disbelief. The lack of noise is eerie and unworldly after so many hours of deafening sound. Then it breaks with the groan of a horn and an uproarious cheer, the clang of weapons being dropped, laughter turning to hysteria._

_Brienne and her companions are some of the only people not joining in with the raucous celebration, all three of them dumb and frozen in shock. They stand unmoving for a long time, until the flurry of activity grows nearer, corpses being removed, families reuniting in tearful embraces, the survivors from the crypts emerging above ground, blinking and clinging to each other as they take stock of their harrowing experience and the sight that greets them in the open air._

_Podrick is the first of them to speak, breathing out a sigh of relief before his face arranges itself into a grin of triumph._

_"We made it, Sers! I… I think we won!”_

_It’s only then that Jaime finally reacts, his golden hand stretching out blindly towards Brienne, the only part of him near enough to reach her. She clings to the cold metal, squeezing the lifeless digits as hard as she can, pressing her own relief and disbelief into him and hoping he can sense it, and in response he tugs her towards him, yanking her into his arms. It’s awkward, their armour clattering and their swords clanging against the plates at each other’s backs, and Podrick can only laugh with tears streaming down his face to join the blood trickling steadily from the gash on his brow._

I told you there’d be an after. _Brienne cannot form the words aloud, but they align themselves in her mind like a promise._

_After a second of calm, where the only sound is Podrick’s slowly dwindling laughter and their breath billowing into the frosty air, she becomes aware that Jaime is slumping further against her, his weight bearing down on her. The sword drops from his grip and his now-free hand clings desperately to her back._

_Oathkeeper joins its twin on the corpse-scattered ground as she tries to keep Jaime upright, one hand pushing at his right shoulder and the other at his left-hand side. A chill of dread overtakes her as something oozes between her fingers, warm and slick; she pulls her hand away from his waist with a startled jerk and panic rises in her chest when it comes away glistening with blood. She presses her hand back against him urgently and he hisses through clenched teeth, the pain suddenly overwhelming him and dropping him like a stone._

_Brienne catches him before he can hit the ground, but is unable to support his full weight; all she can do is follow him down, crashing to her knees as Jaime tumbles backwards, Brienne’s hands still wrapped around his shoulder and side. She exerts more pressure, trying to stem the bleeding, even as he grasps futilely at her fingers and tries to wrench them away. The blood flows like a river over their hands and she can feel him weakening, his desperate grip on her wrist becoming slack. He grimaces, breathing fast; his gaze locks to hers with a look of resigned finality, and she feels her own breath halt in her lungs._

_She is dimly aware that Podrick is shouting for help, dashing from side to side whenever someone comes near, waving his sword in the air like a beacon, but never straying far away from her._

_She tries to swallow the lump in her throat, uncomfortably aware that her voice is trembling when she tries to speak, hoarse from screaming and shaky with emotion._

_“Jaime, stay with me._ Focus _. You’re going to be fine, do you hear me?”_

_He lifts his hand away from hers and raises it to her face, both of them heedless of the blood now smeared across her cheek, mingling with the grime and the fresh tears she has been unable to quell._

_“Is this what you meant by ‘after’?” he asks, still somehow capable of sarcasm; a familiar urge to either kiss him or punch him overcomes her, and her heart almost snaps in two from the agony of it._

_“No,” she responds, trying to maintain some tenuous control. “No, there’s… there’s still time. Please, just… just hold on.”_

_“I always hoped I’d die like this,” he tells her, and her face crumples with abject grief. She removes her hand from his shoulder, raising it instead to press over his where it rests against her face. There are too many things she wants to say, but she is unable to speak, wracked with guilt and regret, mute with shock._

_“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t get here sooner. I wasted so much time.” He forces out a gruff, ironic laugh. “I never did get to hold you, did I? I never did manage to tell you…”_

_He is unable to finish, his eyes closing in defeat and his hand slipping away from her face._

_“Jaime?”_

_She reaches out to shake him, seeking desperately for a pulse, but her hands are too slippery with blood and she can barely see for the tears in her eyes. She grips his shoulders and shakes him harder, achieving little except his head lolling sideways, utterly unresponsive._

_She shouts for help until her lungs are burning and her throat is raw, until a pair of Northerners finally discover them and lift Jaime from the ground and carry him away from her. She tries to follow but cannot force her legs to function, her arms reaching out desperately towards Jaime’s slowly retreating body until Podrick’s hands drop gently to her shoulders, stilling her, and she finally succumbs to the desperate sob that has been trying to tear itself from her chest, shaking so hard that her bones rattle, still kneeling on the cold ground surrounded by a gruesome carpet of lifeless undead and a slowly-spreading pool of Jaime Lannister’s blood._

—J|B—

Brienne pushes the bowl away with a grimace, some of its contents sloshing over the edge, and rests her elbows on to the table so she can hang her head in her hands. A maudlin sigh escapes her lungs, the inhale catching slightly, and she wills herself not to cry. She is exhausted, her entire being yearning for rest, but she cannot close her eyes for more than a second without seeing an ocean of gnashing teeth and decaying flesh, or the sight of Jaime’s blood glistening black against the frozen ground. She has no idea where he was taken, whether it was to heal him or line him up with the other fallen soldiers. Until she knows for certain, there is no use in exercising hope, no point wallowing in grief.

Podrick chews thoughtfully on a mouthful of bread as he watches her, swallowing it before speaking again.

“Have faith, Milady. Ser Jaime will be fine. He’s… he’s a good swordsman, and strong.”

“Pod…” she begins wearily, trying to stop him from talking, but she has no energy to continue.

“Besides, I’m sure someone would have told us by now if he…” Podrick stops himself before he can make the situation any worse. “I mean, Lord Tyrion would know. He’d tell you if Ser Jaime was—“ He stops short again. “I’m sure of it.”

Brienne slowly emerges from her hands, and offers him the barest of smiles in gratitude. She has no idea when her formerly green squire became so insightful, but she is certain it cannot be her doing.

“You’re a good lad, Pod.”

He beams with pride, blushing at the praise, and takes another hearty bite out of his bread.

Brienne contemplates her stew again and takes a tentative sip of the broth, finding it pleasantly warming and strong in flavour despite its weak appearance. She is aware of Podrick’s level gaze upon her as she slowly forces down the rest of the bowl, her progress hindered by arms that feel like lead after countless hours of swinging a sword.

Despite the hive of activity in Winterfell – makeshift infirmaries to see to the wounded, those who did not fight working tirelessly to clear the bodies and build pyres for the morning, Lady Sansa overseeing everything despite the horrors she had experienced in the crypts and the devastating loss of Theon Greyjoy – it is deathly quiet in the corridor beyond Brienne’s quarters. The neighbouring rooms are either newly vacant or providing well-needed respite to exhausted troops.

The last thing she expects in the new-found silence is for it to be disturbed by a knock at her chamber door, so light that she barely hears it. The second time, her visitor raps against the wood with more persistence, and she feels her heart sink to her stomach in anxious anticipation. All she can do is stare at the door, unable to make her limbs function enough to cross the room and open it.

Podrick must sense her unease, because he gives her a reassuring smile and then rises himself to greet their unexpected caller. He opens the door a crack, enough to see who is on the other side, then suddenly swings it fully open, catching Brienne’s eye with a genuinely pleased smile upon his face.

Brienne stares at the open doorway, temporarily frozen into immobility as her mind tries to make sense of what her eyes are showing her. The figure leaning against the jamb slowly raises his head and straightens, taking a careful and measured step inside the room, dropping a hand heavily to Podrick’s shoulder as he moves. He is steady on his feet but clearly in pain, every movement costing him energy and stealing more breath than it should.

Brienne’s eyes are pooling with tears, her bottom lip quivering despite her best efforts. She is barely aware of her actions as she rises from the chair, its legs scraping across the stones; in a few short strides she has crossed the room and collided with Jaime, her arms travelling up and over his shoulders to wrap around his neck. He staggers a little under her momentum, releasing Pod’s shoulder to rest a comforting hand against her back. She melts even further into him at the contact, and he brings his foreshortened arm around her waist, enfolding her into his embrace.

Podrick is staring at them with a faraway expression and knowing smile, but with a subtle gesture of Jaime’s head, he nods in understanding and silently slips through the still-open door, closing it behind him, leaving them alone.

They remain, completely still, as the echo of Pod’s footsteps disappear completely and the room is silent once more. Jaime’s hand moves gently, warm against Brienne’s back, and she shudders on a choked sob – just once, releasing some of the pent-up anxiety of the past few hours. Jaime’s right arm tightens, pressing her closer against him. They have never held each other like this before, but it feels as natural as breathing.

Brienne takes in a deep and calming lungful of air before she finally pulls away, extricating herself from Jaime’s arms, but she does not go far: her hand finds his, their fingers interlocking, whilst she uses the other to roughly scrub the tears from her face as she regains control over her breathing. She takes a moment to try and account for Jaime’s injuries; his face and neck are peppered with cuts and bruises, much the same as her own, and from the way he holds himself she can tell that the wound in his side is still painful, even though it has likely been tended to by now.

“Can I assume from your reaction that you’re pleased to see me, wench?” he asks, a hint of irony colouring his words and his smile, and if not for the fact that they are both so fragile, she would punch him in the shoulder. The frustration she feels at his constant ability to make light of situations is achingly familiar, nonetheless, and she is temporarily overwhelmed by a wave of sheer relief at the fact he is standing before her.

“Gods, Jaime, I didn’t know if you were dead or alive,” she responds. “They just carried you off somewhere and I… nobody could tell me where you were. There was so much _blood_. I thought—“

He quietens her by leaning forward to rest his forehead against hers, and they both release a sigh. His hand squeezes hers tighter as they separate again, before letting go, freeing up his hand so he can lift the hem of his shirt to reveal the bandages tightly wrapped around most of his torso. They are evidently fresh, but a few tell-tale spots of blood suggest the full extent of the damage: the cut extends over most of his ribcage and down to his hip. 

Brienne draws in a breath in shock, her hand extending as if to touch him, before she draws back again, not wishing to cause any further harm. He does not seek to dispel the horrified look on her face; he knows how significant the injury is. 

“I’ll tell you all I can,” he says. “Help me to the chair.”

She allows him to lean against her as he makes his way slowly towards the fire. He drops into the wooden seat with a pained groan, but seems more comfortable sitting down. Before taking her own place opposite, Brienne clears away the empty bowls so she can rest her arms on the table, hands clasped to prevent herself from fidgeting.

“I don’t remember much,” he admits. “I can recall most of the battle, and the moment everything stopped. I remember… falling, and bleeding, and you telling me to hold on, but I can’t tell you when I was wounded. By the time it was over, I couldn’t tell which parts of me were injured and which weren’t. The pain had become so familiar it was almost a numbness.” Brienne nods, at that, recognising the feeling, and allows him to continue. “I woke up in some horrid, windowless room that smelled like death, and I was convinced I’d died and been sent to some Hell or another. Until I realised someone was stitching up my side, and I blacked out again from the pain. When I came to, they’d finished patching me up and I realised I was in some kind of infirmary, probably deep underground somewhere in the castle. Someone gave me some milk of the poppy to help with the pain, and sent me away again.”

“And you… came straight here?”

“If I’d been fully in charge of my senses, that would have been my first instinct, yes,” he explains. “In truth, I was wandering around in a daze for a while. Someone handed me a bowl of stew at some point, but I’m not sure if I ate it. It… took me some time to make sense of the images in my head; it felt like a living nightmare until I finally pieced everything together. The last thing I could remember was lying on the ground, and you trying to convince me to hold on, and that’s when I realised I had to find you.” He pauses for a moment, smiling. “I found my brother first, though.”

“Oh, thank the Gods,” she responds in relief, and at his confused expression, she explains: “Podrick and I regrouped with Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa on our way back to the castle. I don’t know what happened to them, down in the crypts, but it’s the first time I’ve known your brother to be so quiet. He asked about you and… I didn’t know what to tell him. I… I’ve never seen a man look so broken.”

“He was with Ser Davos when I ran into him,” Jaime adds. “Near-hysterical with relief by the time I left again. In truth, I almost didn’t want to leave him, but he was insistent I should find you. With any luck, Ser Davos has either distracted him with wine or convinced him to rest by now.”

Brienne allows herself a wry smile at that, knowing as well as Jaime that Tyrion will have chosen the former option.

“I’m glad your brother knows you’re safe,” she says. “I felt so awful that I couldn’t reassure him.”

Jaime reaches across the table to lay his hand across both of hers where they are clasped together.

“I’m sorry I worried you.”

She almost laughs at that, her tone incredulous.

“ _Worried_ me? I’ve never been so terrified in my whole life! I thought you were going to bleed to death right in front of me.” She shakes her head to dispel the image of his cold and unresponsive body. “You… you said something about always wanting to die like that,” she reminds him. “What did you mean?”

Jaime blinks as the memory returns; he had barely been aware of what he was saying at the time.

“Everyone has… a version of their future that they can picture in their mind,” he explains. “For those of us on the battle lines, the future is a little more… immediate. Most men want to go out fighting. A blaze of glory, a noble death, epic heroes until the end. I’ve always wanted something rather less dramatic.”

He sighs, staring at the table’s surface, gathering his thoughts before continuing.

“I wasn’t lying when I told you that I came here to die; that I wanted to be with you when it happened.” He lifts his eyes to hers, raising his hand to cup her face. His palm is warm, his touch tender: so different to the last time, cold and desperate.

“It’s not so much to ask, is it?” he asks rhetorically. “To be able to die in the arms of the woman I love?”

Brienne has no immediate response to his words; her first instinct is to thoroughly disbelieve him, despite the hopeful flutter in her chest. She thinks back over their limited interactions since Jaime’s arrival at Winterfell: their challenging and confusing conversation in the training yard, his unexpected sincerity before the battle, the lingering glances she has not allowed herself to fully indulge in. A part of her has secretly wondered for some time what all of it had meant, but the idea of him harbouring such feelings for her seems as impossible as… well, she has seen so many impossible things in the last few hours that she has nothing to compare it to. It is an utterly _incomparable_ impossibility that Jaime Lannister might somehow feel the same for her as she does for him.

She is completely unaware of the tears now streaking down her face until Jaime’s thumb gently wipes them from her cheek. From his concerned expression, he was evidently expecting a slightly different reaction, but he allows her the time she needs to recover herself.

The same doubt pops into her mind as she had expressed after their first kiss: mere hours ago, though it feels like a lifetime.

“Gods, Jaime… don’t say that unless you mean it.”

His brow furrows slightly.

“Why would I _not_ mean it?”

“Experience has taught me to be cautious,” she explains. “With you, all the more so.”

He acknowledges that with a guilty nod, his hand dropping away from her face.

“That’s fair, I suppose. I admit, our history has been problematic. But I _promise_ you, Brienne… everything I have told you since my arrival has been true. I came to Winterfell to be with you. I kissed you last night because I was too craven to say what was in my heart. If you had not asked me to wait, I would have told you before we joined the fray.”

“Would that have made me any more inclined to believe you?” she asks him a little incredulously. “Telling me if you only planned on dying anyway? What would you have had me _do_ with that information, Jaime? Spend the rest of my days never knowing for certain?”

He reaches for one of her hands, disentangling it from the other so he can grasp it and raise it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“I plan on living,” he assures her. “I’ll spend the rest of _my_ days convincing you that my feelings are true.”

Their joined hands rest once more against the table-top, his thumb gently caressing her skin. Brienne can only stare at him in thoughtful silence, still unsure as to whether she should believe him. Jaime shakes his head in frustration and sighs.

“Stubborn wench. You are absolutely infuriating, Brienne, do you know that?”

Her mouth upturns in a slight smile.

“That’s _Ser_ Brienne, I think you’ll find,” she reminds him playfully, “and yes, you may have informed me of that fact on a few occasions.”

“Utterly maddening,” he adds, indulging in the game for a moment longer. Then, his eyes soften in a way that is both new and familiar, his tone becoming sincere once more. “I… I’ve never fallen in love before. This is just as new to me as it is to you. But _Gods_ , Brienne, I cannot see any version of my future where you are absent. I would love you forever, if you’d only let me.”

The doubt in her heart is slowly crumbling away, but she remains cautious. There is time for her to learn how to trust. She gives him a small, slightly tremulous smile, her eyes sparkling, and if not for their mutually aching bodies she would lean across the table to kiss him. Instead, they merely gaze at each other across the sparse distance, communicating as effectively without words, perhaps more so, than they ever have with them. Brienne’s other hand clasps tightly over his.

Suddenly, her eye is drawn to the window on the other side of the room, and she rises from the chair with a reverent “Oh…” and makes her way towards the glass. Jaime turns in his seat, wincing slightly, to see what has attracted her attention.

“What is it?”

She clears the condensation from the panes with her sleeve.

“The sun is rising. It’s morning.”

With a great effort, Jaime forces himself out of the chair. He clutches his side for a moment, catching his breath, and steadies himself with the chair-back until the wave of pain subsides enough for him to straighten fully. Slowly, he makes his way across the room, coming up behind Brienne at the window.

The sky is still dark, but the blizzard has finally cleared; at the horizon, a telltale stripe of pale yellow light is slowly encroaching.

“I never thought I’d live to see the dawn,” he says absently.

“I wasn’t sure I would, either,” admits Brienne.

They watch the sun rise in silence, as the sky paints itself in muted pinks and pale blues through a canopy of clouds still heavy with snow. The sun is an indistinct glow at the centre, gradually chasing away the darkness. They have both seen more beautiful and impressive sunrises, but they could not compare to a first light that almost never arrived.

Brienne traces a finger down the glass, pursuing a droplet of water in its path down the window. Lost in thought, she does not expect Jaime to move closer, his arms encircling her waist and his chest against her back. He rests his chin against her shoulder without having to stoop, their similar heights proving advantageous. For a second, Brienne freezes in surprise, but Jaime remains still, anticipating her reaction. The warmth of him is unexpectedly comforting, her nerves abating as she starts to relax, and she rests her arms against his where they sit across her stomach. As her right hand wraps around his empty wrist, she realises for the first time that the golden hand is missing.

“Where—?“

Jaime shrugs, the movement jostling her. “I don’t know, and I’m not interested in finding out. The damned thing just throws me off-balance, and I’m unsteady enough as it is.”

“Good,” she says. “You’re better without it.”

His arms tighten around her waist in gratitude and she hopes he understands the greater meaning of her words.

He plants a kiss to her shoulder, and although she cannot feel it, his breath is warm through the fabric of her tunic. After a second’s deliberation, he presses his lips to the sensitive skin behind her ear, causing her to squirm; she feels his light chuckle more than she hears it, resonating down her spine. He nuzzles into her hair – still damp from her rudimentary wash with cold water and lye soap, but clean – and breathes her in.

She can feel his heart beating strong against her back, quickening with every kiss he peppers onto her skin, her complexion flushing in response. She is warm and content in his arms, almost forgetting the horrors of only a few short hours ago. There is no armour between them now, save the protective shell around her heart, and even that is slowly disintegrating as Jaime brands his affection into every bit of exposed skin he can reach.

His chin returns to her shoulder to watch the sunrise again, sighing contentedly. She is still wary, terrified of allowing herself to believe this is real. A part of her is half-convinced that she is dying on the battlefield, hallucinating as she bleeds out in Jaime’s arms, the cold seeping into her bones, Podrick desperately fighting off an endless wave of wights to give her this one last moment of reprieve—

“I love you.”

The words are a low whisper at her ear, a sharp reminder of Jaime’s solid and very _real_ presence behind her, and they find the ever-increasing cracks in the shield within her chest until she finally allows herself to believe them. The sensation is overwhelming, this sudden knowledge that she is _loved_ , that she is _his_ , and she utters something in response, barely conscious of the words, and Jaime tenses in surprise.

“What did you say?” he asks, a hopeful edge to his tone.

She tries to remember, realising that she had heard herself speak without fully acknowledging what she was saying, and has to pause for a moment to catch her breath. Her heart had spoken for her, more sensibly and courageously than she would ever have managed on her own.

“I said I…”

She needs to see him; needs to see his face. Turning in the circle of his arms, she presses her palms to his chest, feeling the erratic rhythm beneath his skin as her gaze locks to his. She should feel afraid, words catching in her throat and evaporating with a breath, but it seems like the simplest thing in the world now, to give this feeling life.

“I love you, too, Jaime. For as long as I can remember, there’s been nobody but you.”

He stares at her in astonishment for several long seconds, searching her face, and then finally he is kissing her: not the chaste first press of his mouth to hers in a draughty corridor in Winterfell, nor the desperate clash of her lips to his before the battle, but something tender and slow. His heartbeat kicks up a notch beneath her hands, running almost in sync with hers; her fingers clench in the fabric of his shirt to tug him closer and his arms tighten around her.

He lets her up for air, a little reluctantly, giving her only a moment’s reprieve before leaning in again. She evades him, clinging to a final, desperate shred of clarity, as she reaches up to frame his face with her hands.

“I told you there’d be an after.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn you about the softness. ;)
> 
> Hopefully now that this is out of my brain I can get back to finishing TTWD but, eh, we all know how well that'll go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for my neat and tidy one-shot! Whenever I think this story has had enough to say, it proves me wrong. This continuation for “After” popped into my head whilst I was trying to sleep off a migraine – sadly I am never quite able to recreate my migrainous imaginings as accurately as they came to me at the time, so hopefully I have done this justice.
> 
> Fair warning: this was a bit of an experiment. I am still taking (very) tentative steps into writing stuff higher than a T rating and these two (and you!) have apparently become my guinea pigs before I attempt it in my other fandoms. So, er… count yourselves lucky, I guess?
> 
> This picks up immediately where the previous chapter ended and it’s mostly just kissing (literally, the first 600 words of this is kissing) and talking and exchanging banter whilst cuddling, as all of my plot energy is being thrown into “The Things We Do”, but I’m sure nobody will complain about that. There’s a bit of angst and a lot of fluff, and hopefully a couple of amusing moments (I’m pretty convinced that snark is their love-language). It is also, like before, far softer than anything GoT-related has any right to be, but considering D&D wouldn’t know softness if they were suffocating in it, quite frankly I do not care. (No, I’m still not over it a year later.)
> 
> Anyway! Please enjoy!

“I told you there’d be an after.”

Jaime’s face fills her entire field of vision as he gazes at her searchingly. She is not yet practiced enough to fully interpret the myriad things his expression is trying to communicate, but his eyes are glassy, awe-struck; beyond that, it barely matters any more, because soon enough he leans forward again to capture her mouth a second time. 

Tenderness quickly gives way to passion as her fingers scrape lightly against the coarseness of his beard (it needs a good trim, but that can certainly wait a day or so), and he kisses her more deeply in response, his arms tightening possessively around her waist. If it were anyone else, Brienne would feel trapped, but even a few short hours of uncertain anxiety about his fate were too many to endure, and instead she welcomes the sensation of being pressed so close against Jaime’s warmth, to know that he is real and solid and alive.

It has been less than half a day since their first, tentative kiss in the hallway before the battle. Brienne still barely knows what she is doing, fearing her inexperience will soon reveal her to be as naïve as her title – her _former_ title, now that her knighthood has superseded it – might indicate; but she learns fast, reading Jaime’s cues as easily now as during any sparring match.

Her hands move back and up, fingers splaying through his hair, and in reply his left hand travels lightly up her spine. She shivers involuntarily at the contact, arching closer towards him, her nerve endings igniting a cascade of pleasurable tingles through her limbs. Jaime smiles into the kiss, and she can easily imagine the self-satisfied, smug grin he would be wearing if he was not otherwise occupied. Brienne determines that she will return the favour, once she knows how, but for the moment she is cautious of straying too close to his injured side. Instead, when she tugs lightly at his hair, she is gratified by the surprised noise it elicits and the way his mouth falters against hers, before he resumes the attack in earnest.

Of course, it _would_ be a battle; nothing about them has ever been otherwise. There’s no victory to be won, no bitter sting of defeat. Nevertheless, Brienne refuses to be bested, and she tries her utmost to match him.

Jaime’s hand presses between her shoulder-blades, his right arm encircling her, the stump resting against her hip – his hand would be decidedly _lower_ , if it were still there, she realises with a jolt of surprise – and with only the merest pressure he is able to draw her nearer. Their chests are pressed together, heartbeats running in tandem; she can feel him hard and insistent against her thigh. It takes her a moment to fully comprehend that through the encroaching haze in her brain, and understanding dawns like a lightning bolt straight to her heart, her breath suddenly catching in her lungs. The concept that Jaime _wants_ her – Gods, that _Jaime_ wants _her_ – is thrilling and terrifying and utterly preposterous, and suddenly entirely too much to cope with, and she tears herself away with a desperate gulp of air.

She rests her forehead against his as she recovers both her breath and her sanity, her chest rising and falling steadily, and her hands drag down to his shoulders, trying to maintain a scant distance between them. Jaime allows her only a moment to regain control of her breathing before he pulls his head away and leans in to nuzzle his nose against hers, unexpectedly tender, and when he follows by pressing a chaste kiss to her mouth she cannot help but respond, and within moments they are duelling again.

Before she can lose herself, Brienne reaches once more to cup his face in her hands, gently easing him away from her. The abject confusion on his face is almost enough to break her resolve, and she gently caresses the line of his cheekbones with both thumbs, silently imparting that there is nothing badly amiss.

“Jaime, we… we need to stop,” she blurts out, struggling to find the words to impart what she means. “I can’t— it’s too—“

His smile is understanding, and he interrupts her stuttered attempt at an explanation by reaching up to extricate her hand from his face, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“I only want to kiss you,” he promises. “Nothing more.”

She summons up the most sceptical look she can muster and glances downwards, and thankfully he laughs.

“Well… yes, _obviously,_ I would like to do more than just kiss you… but not until you’re willing. Besides, the state I’m in, I’m quite likely to cause myself further injury.”

Brienne smiles at that, though she is unable to dispel the image that returns, unbidden, to her mind’s eye – blood on her hands and Jaime’s lifeless body sprawled on the ground before her. She swallows uneasily, fighting back a wave of nausea. As if sensing her inner turmoil, he raises his hand to her face, bringing her back to reality. She blinks as she refocuses, and the look on his face is more serious, the previous levity gone.

“Truly, Brienne, I wish only to try and make up for all of the time I wasted in the capital. I could have followed you out of Riverrun and saved us both so much unnecessary heartache. Hells, I should have left Kings Landing with you when I had the chance. “ He shakes his head a little sadly. “I didn’t realise how deep my feelings for you were, until I had to watch you ride away.”

She hopes her surprise at that is not too obvious.

“Even then?”

“Yes, even then.” He drops his hand from her face, insinuating his arm around her waist again and squeezing reassuringly. “I loved you then, as I love you now… as I will always, until my very last breath.”

At that, her heart overflows with too many emotions to count, tears springing to her eyes before she can think to try and curb them. She covers her face with her hands, muttering a muffled “Oh, Jaime…” before collapsing against him. Alarmed, he encircles her in his arms and rubs her back in a soothing motion, threading fingers into her hair when that only causes her to cry even harder, shaking from silent sobs.

“Gods, I didn’t intend to make you cry,” he apologises, his tone low and reassuring as he tries to calm her. “Come now. Hush.”

She quiets eventually, pulling back with a loud sniff and scrubbing the remaining moisture from her face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy but just as bright as ever, as she gazes at him in wonder.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… it’s just…” She takes a deep breath to compose herself. “I have loved you for _so long_ , Jaime, and I never dared hope that anything would come of it. To know that you’ve felt the same… after all this time. It’s a little overwhelming.”

“I’m a fool,” he admits, “and I do foolish things for love – in this case, my foolishness was to do nothing at all.” He emits a slightly maudlin sigh, but when he speaks again there is a more positive note to his voice. “I know I can’t bring back all the time we’ve lost, but I really do want to make it up to you. My earlier proposition still stands – I would like to spend several hours kissing you senseless, until you are in absolutely no doubt or the sun rises on another day… whichever of those may occur first.”

A smile edges onto her face, as she realises he is entirely serious. “That seems… a little excessive.”

“Well, I know how much you enjoy a challenge.”

She laughs at that, dropping her head to his shoulder, her hands resting against his chest as he settles his arms around her again.

“Gods, I’m exhausted.” Her words are muffled by Jaime’s shirt, and she lifts her head again before continuing. “Could we move this conversation somewhere more comfortable, do you think?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he says, and kisses her – soft and sweet, barely for a moment – before finally releasing her from his embrace.

The room is warm, Brienne’s ample fire burning strongly in the hearth, but after so long in such close proximity, there is a definite chill as they separate. They make their way slowly towards the bed on the opposite side of the room, Brienne remaining within arm’s reach in case Jaime needs support; he braces against the table at the halfway point, pausing to take a deep breath before continuing again, and she makes a mental note to find some more milk of the poppy when they finally re-emerge from the relative safety of her room.

Jaime sits carefully on the edge of the mattress and leans forward a little in an effort to remove his boots – Brienne smiles as she remembers telling him to do just that, only a few short hours ago – but he winces in pain as the stitches pull uncomfortably. She stills him with a hand to his shoulder and kneels to assist him, tugging the boots off and placing them neatly off to the side. She hesitates to help any further – she does not want him to feel useless – though she grimaces in sympathy as he slowly manoeuvres himself into a prone position on the bed. She busies herself with fussing over the pillows and furs instead, a more practical use of her sudden nervous energy.

She draws the furs up the bed, ensuring Jaime is comfortable, and notices that his shirt has hitched up during his cautious movements. The bandages are more stained than they were and she bites her lip in concern.

“That needs changing,” she says. “There’s some spare cloths in here, I think. I could—“

“It’ll keep,” he tells her, though now that she has pointed it out, the bandages do feel a little sticky and uncomfortable. He ignores it, tugging the shirt down and the furs up, extending a hand towards her. “Now, come here, Brienne, and keep me warm.”

“I should make you sleep outside,” she jokes, as she sits on the edge of the bed and kicks off her boots. “That way you might finally acclimatise.”

“Cruel wench,” he admonishes her. “Is the prospect of being close to me so heinous that you would rather I froze to death?”

“Yes, if you continue to use that awful nickname.” She clambers beneath the furs, settling on her side next to him. “I know you don’t mean it as an insult any more, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant to hear.”

“My humblest apologies,” he says gravely. “If you give me some time, I’m sure I can come up with something more befitting your character.”

He lies still for a moment until the pain subsides enough for him to roll and face her. The movement puts pressure on his side, though it eases after a second or two, and his left hand has been made effectively useless beneath him; with a little more forward planning, he could have ensured that his good arm was the one to drape around her, not the maimed excuse for a limb that he carries on the opposite side. Even so, as he gently places it across her body, she quietly shuffles closer, grasping onto his foreshortened wrist to adjust the positioning of his arm around her waist, without even a flinch.

He manages to extract his left arm and slide it beneath her pillow, his right tightening to tug her further into the meagre space that still remains between them. He hooks his leg around her calf, holding her in place, taking in a deep breath and exhaling with a contented sigh as Brienne’s hands, caught a little awkwardly between them now, come to rest against his chest.

“Are you quite comfortable, Ser?” she asks him in an amused tone. “Plenty warm enough?”

If anything, Jaime is the one keeping her warm, not the other way around. Nonetheless, he hums in response, his eyes drifting closed.

“Yes. That’s much better, love, thank you.”

She does not intend to gasp quite so loudly at the unexpected term of endearment, but it startles Jaime enough that he opens his eyes again, fixing her with a surprised expression. For a moment he is confused by her reaction, before he realises what he had said, and a gentle smile rises on his face. Brienne is well aware that she must look similarly shocked, and to her dismay she can feel the onset of tears again, a telltale lump in her throat and a prickling at the back of her eyes. Before the urge can take hold, she moves her hand up to Jaime’s face and leans in to kiss him.

He practically melts into her at the contact, his limbs tightening around her as if to bring her even closer, though there is barely any distance left to close. He returns the kiss, softly at first and almost chaste, before parting his lips beneath hers and gently chasing her tongue with his. It still surprises her, the intimacy of it, as unpractised as she is – but she responds in earnest, drawing a contented hum from his throat as her hand caresses his face and her fingers once again thread into his hair.

Instinctively, Jaime’s right arm releases its hold on her waist and he moves as if to touch her face. As his stump makes contact with her cheek, he pulls away from her abruptly, a flash of shame and horror in his eyes as though he is dreading her reaction. 

Brienne seeks immediately to remedy the situation, disentangling her fingers from his hair and reaching to cover his wrist, drawing the gnarled appendage towards her mouth so she can bestow a tender kiss to the puckered scars. Jaime’s breath hitches in surprise, his eyes drifting closed for a second before they lock once again with hers, glossy with emotion. She caresses the skin of his wrist with her thumb, the pulse beneath jumping erratically, an echo of his heartbeat beneath her other palm.

Jaime gazes at her in wonderment, vying for the right words to express himself.

“How can you bear it?” he asks in a low whisper. “It’s… it’s repulsive. The worst part of me. You should be recoiling in disgust.”

“The _worst part_?” she repeats incredulously, shaking her head in fond exasperation. “Jaime, I… you saved me, that night. I’ll never forget what you sacrificed for me. Whoever it was that made you so ashamed of this… they were wrong.”

Of course, she knows exactly who is to blame: his father, his accursed sister. One is dead and buried, the other miles away, on the other side of a war. He could have been with her, still, if he had not chosen to join the fight for the dawn. Instead, he is _here_ : in Brienne’s bed, tangled up with her so thoroughly that she can barely tell where she ends and he begins, gazing at her with a soft expression that she is certain she will never fully believe is for her benefit alone.

“Gods, I… I can’t… Brienne…”

He gives up on whatever he was trying to say, communicating instead in a more effective way by pressing another kiss to her mouth; she presses his handless wrist to her cheek and he does not resist or try to pull away. He withdraws after a second or two, determined to give the emotions that are overwhelming him some kind of verbal outlet.

“I love you, Brienne – so much. I don’t think I have the words to express it. You say I saved you when I lost my hand… but you have saved _me_ , in every possible way, more times than you know.”

He smiles at her bemused and slightly disbelieving expression, belatedly realising that this conversation is a little heavy – especially considering that their mutual feelings only came to light less than an hour ago, though it felt like years in the making.

He adopts a lighter tone when he speaks again, as his arm settles around her waist again, her hands resting over his heart.

“You know… I’ve never courted anyone before. I hope I’m doing it right.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she admits with a smile. “I’ve never _been_ courted before. Not properly, anyway.” _Not in a way that didn’t end in humiliation and rejection_ , she thinks but does not state aloud.

“Well,” he ponders, “I’ve already covered the expensive gifts. At least, I sincerely hope that a priceless sword and custom-made armour will suit the purpose. You don’t seem like the kind of woman to be impressed by jewellery or trinkets.”

“Quite so,” she agrees, with a nod. “The knighthood also, though that cost you nothing.”

“Only my dignity,” he suggests. “I was quite jealous of that Wildling, you know.”

She flushes with mock affrontation, pushing back from him so the effect of her glare is not lost. “Jaime Lannister, are you honestly suggesting that you only knighted me for some ridiculous demonstration of one-upmanship?”

“Not _only_ because of that,” he says appeasingly. “Nobody else would have been worthy of the honour.” He considers that for a moment. “Actually, nobody else would have wanted it, from me.”

“Now you’re just being morose for the sake of it.” Brienne huffs, keeping up a pretence of irritation, though she is enjoying the game as much as he is. “Nobody else would have _thought_ to give such a gift, except for you. I… I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“A gift well-received, then,” he surmises, and looks thoughtful. “Now, what else, what else… Ah, yes, I believe I’m supposed to make my intentions towards you clear – I hope I’ve managed that. If you’re still in any doubt, I’m sure I can… _remind_ you.”

He rolls his hips a little, at that, pressing against her, and she cannot help the blush that overcomes her. Jaime’s gaze drifts from her face, down to her neck, and lower still to the bare patch of skin peeking out from the loose collar of her shirt, clearly appraising whether the blush goes all the way down. She fumbles self-consciously to pull the shirt’s edges together, but does not miss the twinge of disappointment on Jaime’s face.

“When you’re ready,” he reminds her, dragging his eyes back to hers. “I promise. I’ll even marry you first, if that’s what you want.”

She gives him a wry half-smile. “Did you just propose to me?”

“I think I did,” he ponders, only realising it himself as he clarifies it out loud. 

“Isn’t there supposed to be more of a question involved?”

“Well, would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Marry me, if I asked you?”

Her head is starting to reel. “ _Are_ you asking me?”

“That depends on how you’ll answer.”

“Jaime,” she begins, and then gives up the fight, shutting him up in the most effective way she knows, by pressing her mouth to his. She can feel him smiling against her lips, thoroughly pleased with himself.

As they separate, she wonders if he will merely start up the ridiculous back-and-forth again, from the knowing look on his face. Instead, he lets out a contented sigh.

“That reminds me… wasn’t I supposed to be kissing you senseless by now?”

She groans in exasperation; as tempting as it might sound, she is exhausted, weary to her very bones.

“I need to _sleep_ ,” she tells him. “Don’t you? Gods, you fared far worse than I did in that fight. You need to heal.”

She expects him to argue, but her words seem to have gotten through to him; he blinks heavily, as though suddenly realising just how tired he is.

“Yes, you’re probably right. We should both rest.”

He shifts a little, settling himself more comfortably against the pillows, though he does not release his firm hold on her. His body against hers is warmer than the furs could ever be, chasing away any remaining chill from the long night.

“One more kiss, my lady?” he asks. “It’s very likely I’ll have to face those undead monsters again in my dreams. I could do with some courage.”

In truth, Brienne shares his fear about what nightmares are yet to come, and she cannot refuse him. She leans in, Jaime meeting her halfway; she expects him to claim her mouth and leave her breathless, but instead he is deliberately, almost cautiously tender. He brushes his nose against hers as he withdraws, meeting her gaze for a brief moment before closing his eyes again, the weariness finally taking over.

His last words before sleep claims him are barely more than a murmur. “Sleep well, m’love.”

One day, hopefully soon, Brienne will be able to stem the urge to cry whenever he uses that word in reference to her, but for now she is too worn out, too battered and drained, to try and preserve her dignity. She allows herself the luxury of a few silent tears, breathing carefully so as not to disturb Jaime and worry him with her demeanour. She watches him sleep – no sign yet of any bad dreams to plague his rest – listening to the crackle of the fire and the sudden patter of rain against her window (a light thaw, after the blizzard, doubtless soon to be replaced with yet more frost), the daylight beyond creating an eerie sense of timelessness.

Eventually, the quiet and the warmth and the relief are enough to lull her to sleep, her hands still pressed protectively over Jaime’s heart and the rest of her secure in his embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there was supposed to be a little more to this, but I really wanted to share it and this works as an end point (for now), so I’ll post the rest later when I’ve properly figured out where it’s going. I hope this has sufficed your appetite for shamelessly fluffy softness, because the next section will be a bit angstier. Er, sorry.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be one chapter, but I am nothing if not a predictable creature of habit, so I had to split it up. As promised / threatened, this is a little angstier than the previous chapter, but there’s some H/C and the next chapter will have more talking whilst cuddling and, yes, more kissing.
> 
> I’m still experimenting with venturing bravely into unchartered territory, so please let me know if something works (or doesn’t) so I know if I’m doing it right. (The rating has been increased because this also includes a canon-typical level of battle gore – don’t get your hopes up...)
> 
> I had great intentions to include more of Jaime’s perspective in this tale but – as ever – it’s Brienne who keeps narrating! 
> 
> Please enjoy.

_He dies a hundred times, in a hundred different ways; every time she cannot save him, too slow, too late, too far away to reach him. He dies in her arms, at her feet, vanishes into the infinite dark, becomes interred beneath the bodies of the fallen. She relives the battle countless times, forever fighting off a never-ending tide of relentless wights, as she bleeds and aches and grieves all at once._

_Sometimes, Podrick dies too, a blade through his back and betrayal in his face. She fails him, fails Sansa, fails Jaime, yet her own body stubbornly refuses to yield, continuing to draw breath and mocking her with her own resilience. Oathkeeper severs and hacks and stabs, its blade never dulling; her armour keeps her alive._

_Every time Jaime falls she feels a sense a yearning helplessness, of words left unsaid, the memory of his first tentative kiss a ghost upon her lips and heart. She fights on, and on, the night extending for an eternity, losing those she loves repeatedly and the world turning slowly to ice._

—J|B—

Brienne wakes to a room that is darker and colder than she remembers, the fire almost dwindled to ashes and dusk already falling beyond her window. It feels like mere minutes since falling asleep, but it must be hours, with the nightmares ensuring that her sleep has not been restorative in the slightest. The chill is exacerbated by Jaime’s absence; he has rolled away from her at some point, and although the expanse of bed between them is only slight, nonetheless it seems a mile after falling asleep so close in his arms.

Still only half-awake, the cold and the low light are disorientating enough that she cannot yet shake the final vestiges of her dreams; the image of him dying over and over again, in a myriad preventable ways, is imprinted on her mind. It merges with the reality until she can barely remember the true events, his lifeless body on the ground, his confession hanging incomplete in the air – these things are so familiar and so horrific that she can no longer separate them from the awful visions she has just endured.

When she looks across to him, his breathing is so shallow as to be almost non-existent, and her own hitches in panic. She shoots bolt upright in the bed, disturbing the furs that cover them both, and her gaze skims his frame; beneath his arm, his shirt is soaked with blood and clinging to his injured side. She lets out a startled cry and begins to shake him, calling his name repeatedly and jostling him more roughly than she would under any normal circumstances.

He startles awake and immediately tries to fend her off, as though he is being attacked, until he finally catches a glimpse of his would-be assailant and registers the open terror on her face.

“What?” he asks accusingly, muzzy from sleep.

“Jaime…” She breathes out in relief.

“Yes – I’m awake. What’s the matter?”

“You… you’re bleeding. I wasn’t sure if you were breathing, and I dreamt… oh, _Gods_.”

She presses her hands to her face in embarrassment, as Jaime’s face softens in understanding. He attempts to roll over again to face her properly, to press a hand to her arm in comfort, but the stickiness of his now-ruined shirt makes him pause, grimacing at the sudden discomfort; he tries again but moves too quickly, the stitches pulling and sending a jolt of stinging agony down his side, and he hisses in pain and gives up.

Brienne regains her composure, Jaime’s predicament giving her something more practical to focus on, and slides from the bed to first attend to the fire. She adds another log and the blaze flares hungrily, flooding the room with orange light. She finds a candle, lighting it with a flint, and hurries about the room collecting fresh bandages, a cloth and a bowl of water. She brings everything to the bed, placing down the supplies, and then moves to collect both chairs from beneath the table. One she places in front of Jaime, the other beside it, where she sets down the candle. She sits and drags the chair nearer.

“You don’t have to—“

“Stop arguing,” she admonishes him in a firm but concerned tone, before he can even start to debate with her. “Sit up so I can do this.”

He falls silent and obeys. With an effort of energy, he manages to force himself upright and swing his legs off the bed to face her, a grunt of pain escaping through clenched teeth despite his best efforts. She shifts forward on the chair, her knees settling between his. She notes with relief that the sheets are unbesmirched; the bleeding must have started after he rolled away from her.

Tamping down any remaining bashfulness, Brienne helps him out of the ruined shirt, lifting it carefully away from his injured side. The bandages are thoroughly stained and she is almost too afraid to remove them, terrified of what she might find beneath. She takes a breath, steadying herself, finding the securing knot and cautiously releasing it, unwinding the lengths of linen and dropping them to the floor. She bites her lip in concentration and sympathy, almost drawing blood. As she reaches the final layer, she pauses for a moment, pressing her hand reassuringly against his arm as she peels the bandages away from the stitches beneath.

It’s difficult to see in the low light, but under the dressings his chest and back are mottled with bruises, spattered with blisters and cuts, much the same as her own. She reaches out almost unconsciously towards a particularly angry-looking contusion near his right shoulder, drawing short at the last second. Jaime is watching her, a smirk rising on his face when he catches her staring, and she averts her gaze self-consciously and returns to the task at hand.

She lifts his arm out of the way, and he grips onto his opposite shoulder to hold it in position whilst Brienne assesses the damage. To her abject relief, she finds that the stitches are still intact, and she tells him so. They are uneven, clearly undertaken in a hurry by someone with an inexperienced hand, but they have held. His unconscious movements have merely aggravated the wound. She can see now that the cut itself is not too deep, but its sheer size is horrendous – as though someone (or some _thing_ ) had tried to slice him open, finding the weak point of his armour with eerie precision. That it missed his internal organs is nothing short of a miracle.

Wetting the cloth, Brienne works diligently to clean away the dried and fresh blood from around the rough edges of the injury and the surrounding area. Jaime hisses from the frigid temperature of the water – poured from the ewer by her window – and she shoots him a silent apology. Goosebumps rise up in the wake of the cloth, travelling quickly across his torso, over his shoulder and down his arm; she tries to concentrate on tending to the injury rather than allowing her gaze to wander elsewhere. She is overcome by a temporary insanity, as the notion occurs of pressing a kiss to the bruises, each in turn, to discover what the warmth of him would feel like beneath her mouth, what his skin would taste like if she tried to soothe the cold away with her tongue.

The fire spits in the hearth, snapping her out of her reverie, and she hopes that her blush is not too obvious in the candlelight, and that Jaime is not capable of reading her thoughts.

Within a few minutes, the water in the bowl is red-tinged and of no further use, but Jaime’s injury is clean, and she carefully pats it dry with a fresh cloth. She needs more room to apply the bandages, so she instructs him to lift his arms out of the way. He does as she bids him, though it clearly causes him discomfort, and she works as quickly as she dares. Within only moments, his left arm in particular is shaking from the effort, slowly dropping lower as it succumbs to gravity. Brienne pauses in the task, lifting his forearms to rest against her shoulders, taking the weight he cannot bear himself.

She can feel his gaze on her as she works, wrapping him up methodically, ensuring that the bandages are tight enough to keep the stitches in place, but not so tight as to cause him further discomfort. It’s not an ideal solution, but hopefully it will suffice until he can get himself to a Maester. She secures the ends as best she can, and Jaime releases a breath she was unaware he was holding.

“Thank you,” he says, and Brienne nods to suggest it was nothing of consequence, though her heart is thumping against her ribs as if she has been sparring.

She reaches for his arms, with the intention of removing them from around her neck so she can rise from the chair, but Jaime’s hand releases its grip around his right wrist and instead flattens against her nape, his fingers toying with the short ends of her hair, causing her breath to catch in her throat. His gaze locks to her, silently communicating his intention, the look on his face as familiar as breathing. She moistens her lips almost unintentionally, in anticipation, as Jaime’s hand moves up to gently cup the back of head and he leans forward to capture her mouth with his.

A relieved, satisfied hum escapes her, his closeness and the press of his lips to hers finally chasing away the lingering images of her nightmare. Her hands slide up his arms to rest upon his shoulders, thumbs gently caressing the edge of his jaw.

The kiss is part gratitude for her gentle ministrations, part indulgence in the temptation that has been plaguing him for the past few minutes, her close proximity and her hands upon his skin becoming too much to bear without being able to touch her in return. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding languorously against hers, savouring the moment. Brienne allows herself to be lost, just for a short while, her fraught anxiety slowly melting away.

Jaime’s knees tighten around hers, and it brings her back to reality, the hard wooden chair beneath her becoming increasingly uncomfortable. She breaks away and he lets her go, a little reluctantly, lifting his arms from her shoulders. He drops them down to his sides again cautiously, wincing slightly.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she asks in concern.

“No. It just stings, that’s all.”

With a relieved nod, she sets to tidying everything away: extinguishing the candle, replacing the chairs beneath the table and clearing up the mess of bloodied bandages from the floor. She washes her hands in the same icy water from the pitcher, rubbing them together and blowing on them as she returns, trying to restore some warmth.

She opens the chest in the corner and roots around, eventually emerging with a clean shirt, before handing it to him. Jaime accepts it with barely a hesitation and pulls it over his head. The fit on him is better – of _course_ it is, she ponders ironically – and she briefly wonders if anyone will notice later on, that he’s wearing her shirt. It’s non-descript enough that nobody would even recognise it as hers, but she fears she will give the game away without intending to: with a misplaced blush or lingering stare. She’s not even certain, yet, if Jaime wants their new-found status to become public knowledge, quite regardless of the fact that everyone will probably work it out within moments. Gods, Podrick had figured it out even before they did themselves, and she hasn’t missed the sly glances from Lord Tyrion either.

She is distracted by Jaime lifting the fabric of the shirt to his nose and taking a deep breath, exhaling with a satisfied smile.

“This smells of you,” he says.

She flushes, not sure whether to be embarrassed or affronted. “It’s clean!”

“I’m not complaining,” he clarifies, the look in his eyes sending a shiver down her spine, before he adopts a more jovial tone. “May I keep it? I’ll gladly return the favour. You can steal anything you like from my admittedly meagre wardrobe.”

He is utterly incorrigible, and she resigns herself to the fact she has seen the last of her shirt. There is no point in arguing, so she returns to her side of the bed, sliding back beneath the furs. Jaime resettles himself, grimacing slightly, and twists his upper body experimentally. Satisfied that the new bandages will hold, he rolls over to face her.

“You should have that looked at properly in the morning,” she suggests. “I’m no Maester, and those stitches probably need to be replaced.”

“They’ll hold for now,” he reassures her. “In fact, I feel better already. It must be the healing nature of your touch.”

She snorts in amusement. “Maybe ask them to check you’re not delirious, too,” she adds, and brushes his hair back from his forehead, surprised when he flinches away from her.

“Gods, your hands are freezing,” he explains, and she considers that they probably _are_ , to him, though they have definitely improved since she washed them. He gestures towards his chest and she takes him up on the silent offer, sliding her hands beneath the borrowed – well, _stolen_ – shirt and resting them against his heart. The bandages offer him some protection from her chilled fingers, the heat from his body more than adequate to help thaw them. His arm finds its way around her waist once more, settling comfortably with his stump against her back.

For a moment, they enjoy the silence and each other’s closeness, waiting quietly for sleep to reclaim them. Brienne feels a little guilty for spending an entire day resting – there is so much still to do after the battle – but the lack of activity in Winterfell suggests that everyone else is taking the same opportunity to recuperate. Tomorrow there will be pyres to build, a funeral to be held for the many who were lost, and then the real work begins: rebuilding the castle, drilling the troops, preparing for the journey south.

Her heart jolts at that realisation, at the thought of Jaime returning to the capital, with or without her. Despite all they have shared in the short time since the battle, she wonders if Cersei’s hold is still too strong; a wave of bitter jealousy washes over her, and she hates herself for it. Jaime has made his intentions more than clear; she trusts his words, his kiss, his arms around her, even as she marvels that she has them at all. She was hesitant, at first, even sceptical, to accept that Jaime could truly love her; she believes it now, a little more with every passing second, but she is not so naïve as to dismiss his past. She can never hope to understand his history with his twin, and all she can do is hold onto the fact that, for the immediate future at least, they are here together in the North, far from the Queen’s lethal grasp.

Any journey southwards could be weeks, even months away. Brienne will savour whatever time they can have before the final manoeuvre in this war inevitably forces them apart.

Jaime’s eyes suddenly snap open on a surprised gasp, startling her from her thoughts. He answers her silent question immediately, in an urgent whisper.

“I… I think I remember. How it happened.”

Brienne is not sure she _wants_ to know how he sustained such a gruesome injury, but from the look on his face it is clear he needs some way of ridding himself of the images in his head, so she nods for him to continue.

—J|B—

_With a pile of corpses growing ever larger at his feet, Jaime does not realise that they are separated from each other until he finds a blessed second of reprieve. Only moments ago they had been fighting back-to-back, Brienne’s presence firm and reassuring, and now he suddenly finds himself alone. It sounds insane even to his own frenzied mind, but the wights seem almost deliberately organised in how they can so effectively distract attention, as though the separation had been intentional._

_In the next second, the turret in front of him erupts in orange flame as one of the dragons – moving too fast to determine which – aims a pillar of fire towards it, decimating the remaining wights as they scuttle and spiral up its interior staircase. Jaime shields his face from the blast of heat, the impact shuddering the ramparts beneath him, and as the turret crumbles he turns away to return to Brienne._

_Through the smoke and the blizzard, he can barely see her at the end of the walkway, if not for the glint of Oathkeeper slicing through the air. He presses onwards towards her, taking out another undead creature to his right as it vaults over the wall, barely dodging a hail of arrows from the archers higher up. Podrick is valiantly defending the walkway behind Brienne, so she can deal with the wights climbing up the tower and pouring through the door; the squire’s face shows a flicker of relief as Jaime approaches and it seems to provoke a burst of energy in the lad, as he swings the sword harder and emits a grunt of determination._

_Halfway back, a Godsawful noise rends the air, a rumbling clatter from down below which grows closer, moving higher; Jaime tries to identify its source, coming to a dead stop as his gaze is drawn to the roof of the tower. At first he thinks he is hallucinating; it looks as though the roof is moving; then the horrible reality dawns as he recognises the shape: an ocean of long-dead rats, all decaying flesh and gnashing teeth, vicious claws and matted fur, as they rush up, up, up and over._

_“Brienne! Above your head! Watch out!”_

_He shouts as he moves forward, but she cannot hear him over the fray; his only option is to run as fast as his heavy armour and exhausted limbs will allow. Another wight grabs hold of his ankle and he kicks it into the wall, its skull exploding and bones shattering apart on impact, viscera splattering against the stones; several hundred bodies ago the sight and sound would have made him retch, but he’s numb to everything except the need to reach Brienne._

_The rats are slip-sliding down the tiled roof of the tower, piling on top of each other in the gutter, forming a larger whole that looks ready to drop at any moment. Jaime rushes onwards, Brienne still distracted by the once-human monsters within the tower and unaware of the danger. He lifts his sword in some vague plan of stopping the rats from raining down on their heads, though he’s sure it will not achieve much. Podrick is staring at him in confusion, before following the line of Jaime’s gaze, acknowledging the situation and heading towards Brienne with the same intention._

_Jaime only realises the absolute stupidity of what he’s doing when the dagger pierces him beneath his left arm._

_He’s left himself wide open, sword arm raised, his back turned to the enemy. He staggers under the impact before reacting, swiping at the half-dead thing still clutching the dagger with his golden hand. Half of its face breaks off with the collision of metal against flesh, but it doesn’t let go, twisting the dagger deeper and dragging it downwards, finding the weak point of his borrowed Northern armour. Jaime strikes it again, and again, until its head is a mess of bone shards and gristle and it collapses, lifeless once more, its twitching hand still clenched around the hilt of the dagger._

_It’s probably a mistake on Jaime’s part to yank the blade from his side, an error he realises too late as blood gushes from the wound, but he can’t feel anything any more, pain and cold and delirium all merging into a sense of numb acceptance. Brienne and Podrick are nothing but a blur up ahead as he forces himself onwards, remembering his purpose, but before he can get any closer the tower’s roof explodes from a blast of bright blue fire, the rats disintegrating on impact, and Podrick yanks Brienne backwards and yells something about moving to lower ground as the battlements rumble ominously beneath their feet, and all Jaime can do is follow them as they all move down, down, down, swords slashing at enemies which appear from impossible places, pulling them off each other, until they reach the courtyard and find themselves in a dead end as the wights press in from all directions and their only option is to keep on fighting, until they win or they die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is ending up much longer than I expected, which is what I get for not properly planning, I guess. I really didn't want to split this chapter into two, because there's a counterpoint of comfort vs. angst vs. feelings that I wanted to come through as a whole entity, with the emotional journey Brienne goes through in relation to Jaime’s injury and its circumstances. (The manner in which he sustains it may well be implausible but I stick by my usual excuse of atmosphere-over-accuracy.) Unfortunately this is growing words beyond what I anticipated, so I will post the rest of this sequence later, which deals with Brienne's reaction and the aftermath.
> 
> In regards to the rat!wights: I’ve been playing a game on X-Box called “A Plague Tale: Innocence” which is set in 14th century France in the middle of a plague, where one of the objectives is to avoid rats that move in massive, intelligent groups and can literally chew flesh from bone in a matter of seconds. I just really liked the idea of the Night King being able to control animals as well as former humans (he reanimated a dragon FFS), and a castle as huge as Winterfell probably has its fair share of dead vermin! If he can control human zombies en masse then rats would be no problem whatsoever.
> 
> I am also trying (and hopefully not failing horribly) to include a vague undercurrent of tension in the lead up to what would be TBTWP in this ‘verse (even if I’m not yet brave enough to write it, but never say never!) - in both this section and the next one - so hopefully that's coming across!
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. =)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so here’s the continuation of the previous chapter, picking up directly where it left off. As promised – more angst, more talking, more kissing, all in one long, 5000+ word segment. I still have no idea where this is going. If I’m remotely brave enough I might do a reimagining of the feast scene and all ensuing consequences in the context of this canon-divergence, but honestly, I did not even plan this far so *shrug*. I kind of like the idea of this being a massive middle-finger to everything from “The Long Night” onwards, so we’ll see!

Jaime finishes his account, a little jumbled and confused as it comes back to him, and shakes off the memory.

“I must have been dreaming about it when you woke me,” he concludes.

Brienne is staring at him, her face blank with shock, her hands still pressed against his chest. She cannot recall such a moment in the battle, one tide of monsters much the same as the last, rats or otherwise, and she has no recollection of Jaime calling out to her or him moving towards her. She knows that the tower collapsed, that at some point they found themselves cornered in the courtyard, but much of the battle is a haze of noise and movement in her memory now.

“You could have been _killed_ ,” she says eventually, accusingly. “Gods, Jaime. What were you thinking? You know better than to leave yourself open like that.”

“I _wasn’t_ thinking,” he admits. “Not about myself. I was acting on instinct, trying to keep you safe. If those things had gotten to you, there was no hope of survival – there were _hundreds_ of them, they would have killed you in a heartbeat. I’d have done anything if it meant not losing you.” He sighs, knowing how much it sounds like an excuse for his idiotic bravado. “My life means nothing, in the greater scheme of things. A one-handed Kingslayer, a disgraced knight well past his prime. But _you_ … this world needs you, Brienne, and so many more like you. True knights, worthy of the title. If that meant giving my life for yours, it’s a sacrifice I would have made willingly.”

Brienne is silent for some time, her mouth set in an unhappy line, quietly seething as she tries to tamp down the absolute fury that is pounding through her veins. She is angry beyond words – at Jaime, at his blasé acceptance of imminent death, but even more so at a world that has caused him to believe his life has no value. Her eyes are shimmering with the force of her rage.

“Your life is not worthless,” she tells him, her voice low and urgent. “Not to me. Not to your _brother_. Even if we’re the only people who can see it, isn’t that enough? To have two people who care for you, who would mourn for you?” She shakes her head in exasperation. “I know you can’t see it, but you are a good man.”

He flinches as though she has struck him. “I’ve done terrible things,” he says. “Things you should hate me for.”

“You don’t get to decide how I should feel,” she snaps, her frustration bubbling over, and immediately regrets it when Jaime seems to recoil into himself in response. She breathes slowly, in and out, considering carefully how to make him understand. She _will_ fix this, even if it takes all night.

Brienne extricates her hands, now warm, from within his shirt, so she can gently cup his face between them. He tries to avoid her gaze but she holds firm until he relents; even then, there’s a strange emptiness in his eyes, almost like he is looking straight through her. His arm is slack and heavy against her side.

“I love you, Jaime,” she reminds him gently. Some of the darkness leaves his expression, and she perseveres. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

 _You shouldn’t_. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but her earlier admonishment is ringing in his ears, so he keeps them at bay.

“I… I do,” he says, but he shakes his head a little, between her hands. “I just… I don’t think I know what that _means_.”

Her heart aches in sudden understanding; she wants to cry; she wants to seek out every person in his family who made him feel like this and exact revenge on his behalf. Anger and protective devotion are warring inside her, and if not for the fact that it’s a winter’s night in the North and she’s still exhausted from battle, she would be riding off to Kings Landing right now to tell Cersei _exactly_ what she’s thinking. Gods, she’ll even find Tywin’s tomb and give it a good kick. She feels helpless, momentarily unable to see any way of making Jaime understand. She’s not exactly an expert in giving or receiving love, but at least her experiences have been mostly positive, failed betrothals aside.

Loving Jaime has been like falling from a cliff into the ocean, drowning, resurfacing, and learning to breathe again. She’s never considered what it _means_ , on a greater level, but she tries to explain and hopes he will understand.

“It’s… it’s acceptance,” she offers. “It’s compromise. It’s knowing your flaws and wanting you in spite of them. But it’s also… Jaime, it’s a promise – an oath, freely given. Only a few hours ago you spoke of marrying me, and what is marriage except for vows and promises?”

He does not respond, but is considering her words, so she continues.

“Whatever you may have done in the past, I know that you had your reasons. You’re not intentionally cruel. Cruel men act indiscriminately, out of malice, because they enjoy hurting others. That’s not you.”

Her thumbs stroke gently across his face, and his eyes close. He nuzzles into her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm, unperturbed by the callused skin that she wishes was smoother. When he opens his eyes again, his expression is soft and familiar; she feels safe enough to withdraw her hands and clasp them in front of her.

“Everything I’ve done,” he says, “was for love. For the people, for my family… for _her_. So many things in protection of our terrible secret, to keep our children safe, even though I was never able to claim them as my own… for all the bloody good it did. Some might say Joffrey had it coming, but he wasn’t _always_ like that; he was moulded into the ruler Cersei wanted to become. Myrcella was too good for this rotten world. She died in my arms, but she knew who I was and she was glad of it. And Tommen… he was so young. I could have prevented all of that, and I should have left as soon I learned what Cersei had done.”

“I didn’t know about Myrcella,” she admits. “I’m sorry.”

She remembers Tommen: just a boy when she had seen him last, but he was innocent and good, made a pawn too soon in the devastating game that has split the world in half. She doesn’t mention it, the pained look on Jaime’s face telling her all she needs to know.

He shakes off the memory, and his arm tightens around her waist; he is back with her again.

“For love of _you_ , I came here,” he reminds her. “And for you, I can be better.”

“Just promise me you will _never_ do something so reckless ever again,” she demands fervently. “I… I can’t lose you, Jaime. Not now. Not when I’ve finally known how it feels to love someone and have it returned.”

He smiles, in understanding, perhaps in sympathy, and gently tugs her closer.

“Ordinarily, I would say that was an impossible promise to keep,” he says, “but I am so _tired_ of this war. If Tyrion’s Dragon Queen really can bring peace to this realm, I’ll bend the bloody knee without a second thought.”

“Do you really believe she can?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. She could be her father’s daughter in every possible way, or she might prove me wrong. Either way, _someone_ has to end this fight, sooner rather than later. I’m ready for peace now.” 

Brienne is sceptical of that, and she smirks in amusement as she suggests: “I think you would find it very tedious if you weren’t fighting for your life every now and then.”

“No, I assure you – I have this all planned out,” he says. “When all of this is over, we will go to Tarth, and I’ll marry you, and we’ll have a small army of children, and live out the rest of our days together.”

“A small army?” she asks incredulously.

“Well, maybe two or three. Or four. Seven? Ten?”

“Oh, _stop_ ,” she interrupts, burying her face against his shoulder to hide her blush, as the implication of what he’s saying hits her a little too late. She’s never really given thought to children, but the picture Jaime paints feels close enough to touch. It has always been her eventual plan to return home, but she never envisaged having company; now, she cannot imagine anything else.

Jaime presses a kiss to her temple, emitting a soft chuckle as she raises her head again to the pillow. She studies him, mulling over his words more seriously.

“Is that really how you see your future?”

“ _Our_ future,” he corrects her gently. “I’ve considered it thoroughly. Nothing would make me happier, Brienne.” She cannot quite rein in the expression of mild disbelief on her face, and Jaime looks concerned. “If that’s not what you want, I’m sure we can reach some other agreem—”

“No,” she interrupts, and then realises how that must sound. “I mean, I do. Want that. It’s just…”

She tries to translate the jumble of images in her head into something she can verbalise, as Jaime gazes at her patiently. Whatever reasonable plans she might have had for her future are scrambled, her wildest and most fleeting hopes becoming suddenly more tangible in their stead. She starts in a place she can recognise, hoping the rest will fall into place.

“I didn’t anticipate this,” she begins. “Any of it. After Kings Landing, I expected the next time we saw each other to be from opposite sides of a battlefield, and only if either of us survived that long… and then you arrived at Winterfell and I realised I’d been _grieving_ , without even knowing it. If I seemed aloof after your trial, it’s only because I was still coming to terms with your presence here – I’d had months to adjust to the idea of never seeing you again.”

She expects him to respond to that, but he remains silent, listening intently.

“After that, every time we spoke was… surprising, and confusing. I tried to steel my heart, to remain focused, but it was useless. You came here to fulfil your sister’s broken vow, knowing full well what the consequences would be, and that meant _everything_. When you knighted me, I thought there was nothing else in the world I could possibly hope for; to ask for more would have been selfish, but… _Gods_ , Jaime, if I had not already loved you, I would have fallen then.”

He nods gently, his recollection of the events very similar to Brienne’s: burgeoning feelings finally clicking into place, a singular moment where they were the only people in the world. If they had indeed been alone in the Great Hall, he might have been brave enough to kiss her, to confess the words he should have said before the battle nearly tore them apart.

“If you think I did not have a similar awakening, you are mistaken,” he tells her. “You were _radiant_. Someone should have knighted you a long time ago, but I was glad to be the one to do it. Even if that was the only good thing I ever achieved in my life, it was something I could finally be proud of.” She is on the verge of chastising him for his self-deprecation, chewing on her lip to stop herself from interrupting, and he continues: “I didn’t dare hope for more, either, but when I saw you across the courtyard, I knew I had to take the chance. Even if you could never reciprocate, you deserved to know.”

She gives him a small, amused smile. “And even then, you didn’t tell me.”

“I _tried_ ,” he reminds her, “but you wouldn’t let me.”

“Because I was _scared_ ,” she confesses. “I didn’t want you saying something you would only regret, if you lived to see the morning. That would have destroyed me, even more than if you’d not survived.”

“Is that why you didn’t believe me?”

She nods, a little embarrassed, and Jaime tightens his grip around her waist, dragging her closer towards him so he can press his forehead against hers. He cannot possibly imagine the hurts she must have endured before now, but he wants to erase them forever.

“Oh, Brienne… I won’t regret this. I’ll _never_ regret you, love.”

She has to swallow the lump in her throat, again, but manages to regain her composure quicker than usual. Jaime seems to have decided on that term of endearment for the foreseeable future, and she will gladly favour it over ‘wench’, so she ought to get used to it.

“Everything has just happened so fast,” she explains quietly. “It’s been barely more than a day since… since you kissed me for the first time, and now you have our whole future mapped out. How can you possibly—?”

“It’s the only thing that’s kept me going, all these years,” he says. Brienne pulls her head away, the surprise evident on her face, and he tries to elaborate. “It was just a silly little dream, at first. I found myself thinking about you one day, and my mind started wandering. Then it became a habit… an escape. I nearly gave up so many times, on my way here. It’s a bloody long journey on horseback, lonely and cold, enough to send even the sanest person out of their mind. It was the thought of seeing you that drove me onwards. No word of a lie, Brienne.”

“I’ve had similar… wanderings,” she admits. “I didn’t like to dwell on them. The romantic dreams of a foolish heart.”

Jaime studies her, as though he is trying to see those dreams for himself, and gives her a curious smile.

“Tell me.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “I most certainly will not!”

He laughs. “I had a feeling you might say that. You can’t blame me for trying.”

“Tell me _yours_ , then,” she counters, “if you’re so keen on sharing.”

“Now, why would I want to just tell you, when I have every intention of _showing_ you?”

The timbre of his voice has altered, the moment of frivolity dissolving; Brienne’s focus is suddenly honed on the knot of tension in the pit of her stomach, which slowly unfurls and spreads like liquid warmth through her limbs. For the third time since waking, she feels her self-control grow tenuous, not helped by the fact that Jaime is so evidently _aware_ of her predicament, with the barest hint of challenge in his expression.

Her eyes meet his; they are darker than the low light would account for, travelling over her features and settling for a long moment upon her mouth, before his gaze locks to hers again. He edges very slightly closer, but hesitates, waiting for her to make the final move. Brienne’s knuckles are white from clasping her hands together so tightly, to stop herself from reaching out to pull him nearer; she has to force herself to unlock her fingers, tentatively extending her left hand to cup his face. Her right arm is bent a little awkwardly in the space between them, but she presses her palm to his chest to feel the steady thud beneath his skin.

He closes his eyes for a heartbeat as her thumb swoops across his cheekbone; when he opens them again, there’s a flash of desire, unrestrained, and it sends a jolt straight to her core. Her astonishment is still tangible; she cannot quite shake her disbelief, the sensation that this is all a fleeting dream which will disappear with the morning light. Jaime’s physical presence both grounds her and confounds her: whilst her mind could never have conjured up such a situation as this, the absolute impossibility of it is startling.

“Brienne.” Jaime’s voice drags her back to the moment, the look in his eyes unchanged, if perhaps a little more desperate. “Please, either kiss me or put me out of my misery, before I—”

She chooses the former, surging to meet his mouth, because _Gods_ she’s been wanting to kiss him for what feels like hours and it’s only some niggling sense of propriety which has prevented her from doing so; it didn’t seem polite to interrupt him when he was laying his heart bare. Whatever Jaime was going to say is muffled, his interrupted words turning into a satisfied groan.

The kiss is frantic, clumsy, messy, a ridiculous battle for dominance borne out of sheer relief – Brienne still fraught from tending to his injury and learning its origin, Jaime’s nerves on edge after his unexpected remembrance of it and how close he had been to losing her – and the need to breathe is what finally breaks them apart. They resume a second later, but it’s Jaime who slows things down: his handless wrist against her chin nudging gently to adjust the angle of her mouth against his. He draws her bottom lip between his teeth, nipping tenderly, before chasing her tongue with his.

Brienne melts into him, boneless, shuffling closer with her hand burying itself in his hair. His arm drifts back to encircle her waist, tugging her with him as he rolls onto his back, and with his left hand now free he reaches up to caress her face. Their legs tangle together, his knee hooking around hers, the evidence of his need pressing against her. It’s surprising, still, but familiar. 

She is suddenly, acutely aware of her own weight bearing down on him; she may be a maid still but she’s certainly no delicate slip of a girl. She tries to brace herself on her arms, but as soon as she moves away Jaime’s right arm clutches at her back possessively, preventing her from escaping. She tries again, the kiss breaking as a minor scuffle ensues, Jaime trying to hold her in place and her hands scrabbling for purchase wherever she can reach, and she’s half-considering tickling him as a last resort to get him to cooperate when he suddenly seizes up and cries out in pain. She freezes, terrified, before she realises that her right hand against the mattress has caught his injured side on the way down.

She supports herself on her left arm, hand against the pillow beside his head, and moves her right hand up as well. Framed between her arms, Jaime’s face is contorted in a grimace, whilst her own is a mask of remorse.

“Shit. _Fuck_ , that hurt.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t intend—”

“It’s… it’s fine, just give me a minute.”

He focuses on his breathing as the pain slowly subsides, the throb of agony eventually dwindling to an ache and an occasional sting. Brienne holds herself away from him, looking as guilty as if she had caused the injury herself rather than merely aggravating it.

“Are you— Is it—”

She fumbles over her words, and Jaime reaches up to cup her face, his thumb brushing against her mouth and effectively quietening her.

“I’m _fine_ , Brienne. You just knocked the wind out of me, that’s all.”

She nods, and he withdraws his hand, but she will not be satisfied until she knows for certain. Still bracing awkwardly on her left arm, she lifts the hem of the shirt to inspect the damage. The bandages are still clean and she breathes out in relief. Jaime winces a little as Brienne tugs the shirt down again, but he catches her hand in his before she can return it to the pillow, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Come back here,” he orders her gently. “I wasn’t finished kissing you.”

She smiles, but is still wary of crushing him, particularly after exacerbating his physical fragility. 

“Can we at least—”

She tries to disentangle their legs so she can move away, but Jaime only tightens his grip.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Come _here._ ”

He is slowly wearing her down, not that she would admit that. Her arm is starting to ache and tremble from the effort of holding herself up, particularly with the weight of Jaime’s arm trying to pull her down; it’s futile to hope that he hasn’t noticed, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eye that she almost misses before he turns his head towards her hand. He presses a kiss to her wrist and starts to move up her forearm, nosing her shirt sleeve out of the way, until he reaches the crook of her elbow. The warmth of his lips and bristle of his beard against the sensitive skin are enough to make her arm give out, dropping her inelegantly onto his chest. That winds him, too, but he recovers on a laugh.

She rights herself, bracing her forearms lightly against his chest to lift herself up, bringing them face to face. They stare at each other for a long moment, the firelight casting flickering light patterns across their respective features; the crackle in the hearth and the howl of the storm beyond Brienne’s window the only sounds to encroach upon their safe haven. The furs have become dislodged during their tussle, and she cannot tell if the shiver down her spine is because of the chill, or the look on Jaime’s face.

He lifts his hand to her cheek, caressing her skin with his thumb.

“I love you.” A quiet sigh. “If you still don’t believe me—”

“I do,” she assures him, but shakes her head with an amused smile. “I honestly suspect you might be insane, but I believe you.”

“Well, Lannisters are not exactly known for making level-headed decisions,” he agrees, both of his siblings coming to mind, as well as some of his own more questionable choices. “But in this, I assure you, I am in possession of all my senses.” He adopts a more serious tone: “If I ever cause you to doubt my devotion to you, _then_ you can assume I have lost my mind. Only a fool would give you up, Brienne.”

She gives him a fond, mildly exasperated look, before leaning down to bridge the meagre space between them, favouring actions over words. They have always been able to communicate with nothing more than a glance, speaking through silence; in the battle it had been imperative to know what the other was thinking; now, the eager press of his mouth against hers is just as effective as any gesture. Jaime kisses her tenderly, his hand sinking into her hair; she tries to mimic his earlier technique, drawing his lower lip between hers, gratified when he hums contentedly.

She toys absently with the loose ties of his shirt, her fingers occasionally travelling to seek out the warmth of his skin only to disappointedly recall that most of his torso is covered by bandages; when she lays her hands flat she can feel his heartbeat thudding strong against her palms. Jaime’s right arm moves gently down from her waist to her hip, then up again, nudging the hem of her shirt out of the way. His handless wrist caresses the bare expanse of her back, tracing a path up her spine and igniting a shudder throughout her entire body, an involuntary moan rumbling from her throat. In response, Jaime kisses her harder, his hips rolling upwards.

A wave of sudden, unprecedented panic overwhelms her, causing her to break the kiss; she half-expects Jaime to pull her back down towards him, but instead he allows her a moment to recover, his hand disentangling from her hair to cup her face instead. His gaze locks to hers, pupils blown so wide she can barely see the green, and she knows full well she must be similarly afflicted.

Blinking rapidly, she takes a breath. “Jaime…”

“I know,” he says, interrupting her before she can launch into a rambling explanation, and predicting her words with a knowing smile. “We need to stop.”

She bites her lip apologetically. “I’m sorry, it’s just—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he reassures her. “Besides, I’m a man of my word. I promised to wait, and I will.” His thumb caresses her cheek. “I just hope you know… how _badly_ I want you.”

Brienne is unable to prevent the flush that colours her features at his affirmation. She has no answer to give; she wants to kiss him again but fears neither of them would be able to rein in their self-control. Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Jaime reaches instead for one of her hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, before finally releasing her from the confining hold of his limbs.

She clambers off him carefully, wary of knocking his injury again, and settles on her side next to him, his left arm extending to wrap around her as her head comes to rest against his shoulder. It’s different to when she was facing him; she can see the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, practically hear his heartbeat beneath her ear. She extends an arm across his stomach, hoping that he feels as safe in her hold as she does in his.

Jaime turns his head, pressing a kiss to her temple, and she thinks maybe he does.

“You need to find the Maester in the morning,” she reminds him quietly, and he only chuckles in response. “I _mean_ it, Jaime. You need someone who knows what they’re doing to take a look at those stitches. Anyway, the sooner you heal…”

She trails off into an embarrassed silence, hoping that he will not press the matter.

“Yes? Come on, Brienne, out with it.”

He will not drop it, she knows, and after a brief moment to summon her _woman’s courage_ once more, she continues:

“The sooner you heal, the sooner we can…” She still cannot bring herself to finish the suggestion.

Jaime pretends to consider her offer very thoroughly. “Hm, well, you certainly make a compelling argument. I’ll have to give it some serious thought.”

She indulges in an eye roll and pokes him in the chest. “Jaime, just see the Maester, or I’ll drag you there myself.”

“Yes, _fine_. But rest assured, I’ll be coming straight back here as soon as he’s finished with me. I never want us to be parted again.”

“That’s a lovely sentiment, but there’s so much still to do on the morrow,” she considers. “They’ll be building the pyres from sun-up; we’ve a funeral to attend. Lady Sansa will be keen to start rebuilding, and the Queen will waste no time in regaining her troops.”

“There’s also the feast,” he adds. “To commemorate our great victory. We have so much to celebrate, and you’re sorely mistaken if you think I’m going to do that on my own. I want us to march into that Great Hall together so I can lay claim to you in front of everyone… especially that bloody Wildling.”

Brienne is flattered, and more than a little surprised, that he wants to announce their new arrangement so soon. Still, there are others within Winterfell who care for him, and she is wary of stealing all of his time.

“You should dine with your brother. It might be the only chance you have, at least for a while.”

“After sharing quarters with him, I’ve had my fair share of listening to his drunken ramblings,” he japes. “Still, I suppose you’re right. There’s no harm in you joining us, though, Brienne. I’d like it if you could get to know each other better. Don’t let all the bawdy humour and sardonic wit deter you; he’s actually quite pleasant, underneath all that.”

“It’s almost like you’re related…” ponders Brienne, a hint of irony colouring her words, and Jaime huffs out a laugh as they lapse into silence.

It feels odd to admit that she’s already grown used to his presence in her bed, when only two days ago they had barely even spoken to each other since his arrival. She has no idea how to broach the topic of him staying beyond the morning, or whether she should even assume that he would wish to do so. They have already broken any existing rules of propriety, and if Jaime really does intend to _wait_ , it seems likely he would prefer to do that away from her.

She approaches the issue cautiously.

“You can’t keep sleeping on your brother’s floor,” she says. “I could… speak with Lady Sansa on your behalf. You helped to defend her home; it seems only right you should be offered quarters of your own.”

Jaime does not immediately respond, and she can practically hear him mulling over her words. Already, she wishes she had not brought it up.

“That’s… um…”

“I’m not suggesting that you’re incapable of vouching for your own wishes,” she adds quickly. “Of course, you should ask her yourself, I only thought—”

“No, it’s not that. I mean, I _will_ speak to Sansa, if you think that’s best, but…”

“But…?”

“Why cause all that inconvenience, when I could just stay here?”

Her heart feels lighter almost immediately. “Is that what you want?”

“Very much so.”

Relieved, elated, Brienne leans up and over, kissing him soundly. He smiles against her mouth and is still smiling when she withdraws.

“Stay, then,” she demands of him softly.

“For as long as you’ll have me.”

As she settles against his shoulder again, the relief turns to exhaustion. It must be the middle of the night, by now, and they’ve a long day ahead in the morning. She reaches for the furs at the foot of the bed, where they ended up during the impromptu wrestling match, tugging them up again. Cuddling up to Jaime, she lets out a contented sigh and presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. He nuzzles against the top of her head, his arm tightening around her shoulder.

In the quiet and the orange-hued shadows of her chamber, warm and safe and loved, Brienne allows the pull of sleep to drag her under and her still-foolish heart to run free. She knows that the old songs and stories are untrue, but she has always believed in happy endings. There’s another battle still to fight and the war is not yet won, but none of that matters, for now; as slumber claims her, the final thought to cross her mind is as comforting as it is implausible:

_I’ll have you forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m leaving the eventual chapter count on this story open-ended, just in case it decides to jump back into my brain, but for the meantime, let’s call that the end. I got there eventually: they simply would. not. shut. up. 
> 
> In furtherance of using these two as my guinea pigs, I’m practicing writing about kissing, so, er… yeah, fingers crossed it wasn’t too awful! (*insert “I have no idea what I’m doing” GIF*)
> 
> Since this has kind of turned into a post-Long Night AU of sorts, I attempted to fix the whole “doing-hateful-things-for-Cersei” nonsense by having Jaime admit that he’s done things for love, and Brienne point out that he’s not, by design, a malicious person who is just needlessly cruel for no reason – and just, you know, having them actually talk to each other whilst sober for more than five minutes.
> 
> I’m trying not to throw too much “fixing” into this story because there’s still a lot of ground to cover in the next (hopefully final) chapter of “The Things We Do”, and I don’t want to ruin all of my hard work in bringing it to fruition. This was more about fixing the mess before it ensues, rather than after.
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. =)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it just keeps on coming! This chapter is a series of shorter vignettes leading up to the funeral scene from 8.04 and taking it in a slightly different direction from canon. I still have no clue (a) what I am doing or (b) where this is going, but I couldn’t rest until this sequence was released into the wild. I have updated the story tags to reflect the tropes that this chapter ended up with.
> 
> I very much struggle to ‘hear’ Podrick so I hope he’s not too OOC in this chapter. I can’t remember if he even had any lines for the entire of season 8 other than singing “Jenny of Oldstones”…
> 
> You can expect more of the same from this chapter as previously, that is: early morning cuddles, a bit of angst, and lots of kissing between our two favourite idiots in love – this time a little more from Jaime’s perspective than Brienne’s. I am forever bitter about how the show treated them (and us), and that we didn’t get to see more of them being happy before the writers broke our hearts.
> 
> Such being said: this piece is the absolute pinnacle of self-indulgent fluff and I’m mostly writing it for my own benefit, but if others are enjoying it then I certainly won’t complain.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Dawn breaks; daylight, white and hazy through a filter of snow, slowly encroaches into the room and drags Jaime from slumber.

For a moment, he is disorientated, unable to recall his whereabouts. There’s another body with him in the bed and his immediate instinct is to panic – _he should not have stayed all night and now the servants will see and the secret will be out and everyone he cares about will die –_ but once his eyes adjust to the light he finally becomes fully aware of his surroundings. Dark stone walls tinted orange from the dying embers of a fire: Winterfell. The heaviness of furs and coarse linen sheets. Morning glowing cold and bright rather than golden. The body is as tall as he is, with a pillow-rumpled mess of short blonde hair. _Brienne._

In a flash, he remembers the events of a few hours ago, in the eerie half-light of dusk: her gentle hands tending to his injury, a heartfelt discussion in the wake of his terrible remembrance, the comforting weight of her as they kissed, and the even steadiness of her breathing as she fell asleep against his shoulder. He lets out a lungful of air in relief, and sags against the mattress again, the tension leaving his limbs.

Brienne has rolled away from him during the night, but if anything it has brought them closer together, back-to-chest, knees interlocked, Jaime’s right arm curled protectively around her waist. He nuzzles the back of her neck, pressing a kiss to her nape, and she stirs a little but does not wake. When he shifts his arm he realises that the hem of her shirt has bunched up, exposing the merest inch of her torso to his touch.

If it were anyone else, Jaime would never dream of allowing his maimed arm to come into contact with another’s bare flesh, but with Brienne he no longer feels any compulsion to hide away – _Gods,_ how has she managed to make him overcome that in such a short space of time? – and the smoothness of her skin is too tempting to ignore. His arm drifts upwards, skimming the toned expanse of her stomach, the outline of her lower ribs, her sternum. It’s only when he moves higher, grazing the soft underside of her breast, that he realises she is awake, as she reaches for his wrist and gently tugs it downwards again, back to her waist.

He acquiesces without argument, but makes his disappointment known. Somehow, even though she is facing away from him, Jaime can tell she is smiling, amusement in her tone when she speaks.

“Good morning, Jaime.”

“G’morning,” he mumbles in response, pressing another kiss into her hair and tightening his grip around her.

Brienne shivers against the early morning chill and shuffles backwards, instinctively seeking out his warmth, but then freezes in surprise. For a moment Jaime is confused, part of him still anticipating that she will recoil from his handless arm, before realising that he has once again been unable to curb his body’s reaction to Brienne’s close proximity.

“Ah. Sorry.”

“No, it’s… it’s fine.”

She rolls, turning beneath his arm, to face him. His forearm lingers under her shirt, gently caressing her lower back, partly in affection and partly to reassure himself that she really does not find it repulsive.

“I suppose I need to get used to it,” she ponders.

“I can’t help it if I find you irresistible.”

He fully expects her to argue, but instead she graces him with a curious half-smile, raising her hand to his forehead.

“Are you _sure_ you didn’t take a knock to the head?”

“Quite sure.” He gives her a soft smile. “I admit, it’s very rare that I speak sense – but absolutely nothing I have said to you these past few days has been a lie.”

She brushes some errant hair away from his eyes before her hand trails down, fingers tracing a path behind his ear and her palm resting against his face. She studies him searchingly for a moment, then shakes her head in fond exasperation and leans in to kiss him. Jaime hums in approval, his arm tightening and legs entangling with hers, dragging her closer. At the gentle caress of her hand, her nails lightly scraping against his beard, his tongue darts towards the seam of her mouth, seeking entrance that she gladly provides, and for the next few seconds they are aware of nothing but each other.

A distant noise in the corridor beyond the chamber door drops them suddenly back to reality; the rest of the castle’s inhabitants are stirring, ready for the day ahead. They force themselves apart with a shared look of regret. The battle may have been won, but there is much yet to do, and there is not the time to indulge in idling the morning away. Still, perhaps they can allow themselves a few minutes more to enjoy the quiet, before duty calls.

“That,” says Jaime, nuzzling his nose against hers, “certainly did not help my current predicament.” 

He rolls his hips towards her and does not miss the way her eyes darken in response, despite her surprised intake of breath; he’s almost certain that she had pressed back against him, very slightly, and the idea of that makes him dizzy with need. He is leaning to kiss her again when a sharp knock at the door intrudes on their solitude, and he pulls back with a groan of abject frustration. There is no point in hoping their visitor will go away, as within seconds there is another knock, louder and more insistent.

“Milady?” The voice on the other side is muffled, but undeniably that of Brienne’s squire. “It’s Podrick. I thought you might want some breakfast.”

Brienne presses her forehead to Jaime’s for a final, shared moment of closeness, before disentangling herself. He lets her go, albeit reluctantly, and watches as she crosses the room to open the door.

“Good morning, Ser,” says Pod brightly from the other side of the threshold.

“Good morning, Pod. I trust you managed to get some rest?”

“Yes, thank you, Milady. I came to let you know that there’s breakfast being served in the Great Hall. Would you like me to get something sent up for you?”

“Oh… yes, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Her squire hesitates for a moment, looking thoughtful, then leans forward conspiratorially. “Would that be one serving, milady, or two?”

Brienne _should_ admonish him for his forwardness, but then she remembers that he had left shortly after Jaime’s arrival, making himself scarce. He had clearly been aware, at least to some degree, of what might ensue. Whilst she feels the need to assure him that nothing _improper_ has occurred, she is also very disinclined to share details of such a personal nature, even with Podrick. _Especially_ with Podrick. 

Instead, she holds her head a little higher, communicating that she is not ashamed, but she keeps her voice low so as not to be overheard.

“Two. But I’d appreciate your discretion, for now, Podrick.”

“My lips are sealed,” he promises, not quite able to force back the grin that illuminates his face. “Besides, almost everyone is half-starved after the battle. I’m sure nobody will question it. Is there anything else you need?”

“Actually, you can do me a favour later.” Podrick nods. “I need you to accompany Ser Jaime to see the Maester. He was injured during the battle and it needs attention. I fear he will not go of his own accord.”

Jaime’s voice emanates from within the room – “I _can_ hear you, you know.” – and Brienne bites back a laugh. Podrick also beams in amusement, temporarily unable to contain his delight at the situation, but manages to arrange his face into a serious expression.

“I’ll make sure he gets there, Ser.”

“Thank you.”

With that, he sets off down the corridor again, and Brienne closes the door. In any other circumstances, she would chastise Jaime for making his presence known, but she trusts Podrick to keep her business private. Any remaining disapproval that she could send in Jaime’s direction evaporates at the sight of him in her bed: still not fully awake and delightfully rumpled. The covers are pulled back on her side of the mattress and it’s so very tempting to return, bury herself back under the furs and in Jaime’s arms. Now that she’s up, however, she’s very aware of her empty stomach and the need to prepare for the day.

She moves to add another log to the fire, to keep the blaze going, moving about the room to see to anything else that needs her attention, and she can feel Jaime’s gaze on her as she does. When it’s obvious that she won’t be going back to him, he sighs in defeat and attempts to get up himself. The effort causes him obvious discomfort, and Brienne heads over, pressing a hand to his shoulder to encourage him to remain where he is.

“Rest awhile, Jaime,” she says. “There’s no rush.”

Before she can move away, Jaime grasps onto her hand, pulling her down to sit on the edge of the mattress beside him. He holds firm even after she has settled, refusing to let go.

“If there’s no rush,” he suggests, “you can keep me company.”

Any argument she could make to the contrary vanishes as Jaime’s thumb gently caresses her hand. She weaves the fingers of her other hand into his hair, ruffling it slightly, and he closes his eyes like a contented cat – _or a lion_ , she reminds herself – and sinks back against the pillow. He is evidently happy to remain like that, so for the time being Brienne allows them both a moment of quiet peace.

Besides, it might be a while before they can indulge in such simplicity again.

—J|B—

Their breakfast – a simple affair of porridge with servings of honey and wild berries for sweetness – is brought by one of Winterfell’s many serving girls, and Brienne collects the tray through her half-open doorway, thanking the girl for her trouble and sending her off to locate Podrick. She deposits the tray on her small table and then returns to the bed to rouse Jaime. He had succumbed to a light doze under her gentle ministrations, the knock at the chamber door only just piercing the haze of sleep.

She wakes him with a hand against his shoulder, helping him rise from the bed when needed; with some relief, she notes that his shirt is clean and that her slightly amateur, middle-of-the-night attempt at patching his wound has held. Jaime is steadier once he is actually standing, crossing the room slowly and dropping into the wooden chair with a little more ease than the previous day. When she passes him his boots, he manages to pull them on himself, wincing slightly but able to achieve a wider range of movement.

They eat in companionable silence until the door knocks again, Podrick announcing his arrival to accompany Jaime to the Maester. Brienne gets up to answer and allows Podrick into the room, this time, now that the secret is out. Jaime makes no move to rise, however, greeting Pod with the barest nod of his head but otherwise refusing to acknowledge the reason for the lad’s arrival.

The silence extends, Brienne staring meaningfully at Jaime until he caves under her scrutiny.

“I don’t need a bloody chaperone,” he gripes, and Brienne merely rolls her eyes impatiently.

“You can barely walk three steps without support,” she points out. “You agreed—”

“—to see the Maester, yes. I remember. But you don’t need to send me there with a personal guard. I’m not going to wander off, and I’m sure everyone has bigger things to worry about than trying to assassinate the resident Lannister.”

She levels her gaze at him, whilst Podrick watches the exchange with growing amusement.

“Jaime, do you even know how to get there?”

He is about to answer, but hesitates; deciding that discretion is the better part of valour, he gives up with a sigh.

“Truthfully? I barely remember how I got _here_.”

Indeed, much of his recollection after waking up in the infirmary is a blur of noise and colour now, a fevered dream fuelled by poppy milk and exhaustion. He must have stumbled upon Tyrion by accident, and it’s a miracle he made it to Brienne at all.

Brienne nods, satisfied. “Podrick?”

“Yes, Ser?”

“Please escort Ser Jaime to the Maester.”

“Yes, Ser.”

Jaime quickly realises that he is outnumbered and puts down the sprig of berries he has been absently picking at for the past few minutes, pushing out of the chair. He makes it halfway across the room out of sheer pride and determination, before a surge of pain overwhelms him; when he reaches out to steady himself he finds Podrick’s shoulder already rising to meet his hand, and nods in gratitude.

“You’d best lead the way, then,” he suggests.

They pause at the threshold, as Podrick remembers the message he had intended to impart on his arrival.

“The funeral is in a couple of hours, Milady.”

“Thank you, Podrick. I’ll see you later.”

With that, after briefly checking that the coast is clear, the two men depart into the corridor.

The Maester’s Tower is a long distance away on the other side of the castle, a difficult enough trek even if the Night King’s undead dragon had not decimated half of the building; at their current pace, it will take all day to get there. Luckily, Samwell Tarly is still set up in one of the makeshift infirmaries within the main castle, close to the Great Hall, only one storey down.

They make slow progress, walking in a silence that is not quite awkward, but lacking a common starting point for conversation. They pause halfway down a set of stairs so that Jaime can catch his breath, leaning heavily against the wall, and Podrick appraises him thoughtfully. There are words on the tip of his tongue that inherent propriety prevents him from uttering; Jaime barely had the patience for such things in the royal court, and has even less so now.

“Out with it, Podrick.”

“Beg pardon, Ser?”

“Whatever it is you’re so desperate to say.”

Caught off guard, he stammers nervously. “W-well, it’s about Milady.”

“I guessed that much. I very much doubt you’d be wearing such a face about anyone else.”

Despite his thoughtful countenance, Podrick has not fully considered how to word the question burning in his mind, and he launches into it haphazardly.

“How do you… that is— I mean—“ He cuts himself off, steels himself, and tries again with more determination. “I need to know that your feelings for her are true. That you— that you love her, Ser.”

The directness of Podrick’s query momentarily floors him, but the answer is obvious.

“Yes. More than anything.”

He looks sceptical. “More than your si—”

“ _Yes_. Seven Hells, boy, you don’t pull any punches, do you? Brienne is…” He takes a breath, and tries to explain. “She’s more than I should deserve. I’m very aware of that. But she means everything to me, and I want to be worthy of her.”

Podrick seems convinced, at least, but his troubled expression has not altered.

“She loves you.”

“I know that.”

“No, Ser. Truly, you don’t.”

Podrick debates with himself whether or not to continue; Brienne will certainly kill him if she finds out he broke her confidence; but Jaime deserves to know.

“After we left Riverrun,” he explains, “she was quiet. More so than usual – for days she barely spoke a word. She wouldn’t tell me anything, but I knew. After you waved each other goodbye, it was obvious: she’d wanted to stay… or for you to leave with us. Oh, she knew it was impossible, but all the same… I’d seen that look on her face once before, but I barely even knew her then – it was when we left the capital. But after Riverrun, it was so much worse.”

Podrick hesitates for a moment, shaking off the memory, before continuing.

“I’m not sure how much you know, about her history.”

“Not nearly enough,” admits Jaime, his tone regretful.

“She’s been hurt,” he says plainly. “A few times, years ago, before she met you, but the wounds still cut deep.”

Podrick gives him a meaningful look, and Jaime tries to reassure him: “I won’t—”

“Ser Jaime, I…” The boy looks very serious, all of a sudden, his face darkening threateningly. “I may not be as great a swordsman as you, but I swear… if you hurt her or betray her in any way, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

Taken aback by the squire’s bold claim, Jaime is unable to respond immediately. He is uncomfortably aware of his very vulnerable position, midway down a steep and winding staircase; the merest push would see him tumbling to the bottom in a pile of broken limbs. Nonetheless, a surge of unprecedented pride wells up in his chest at how fiercely loyal and protective the lad has become, reassuring him that he made the right decision in sending Brienne off with the company of a squire. A green boy no more, under his lady’s patient (occasionally not-so-patient) tutelage, Podrick has grown into a confident and decent man.

“Podrick Payne,” he begins, his tone sombre and serious, “I swear to you, if I ever cause Brienne any kind of heartache, I will happily throw myself in the path of the nearest dragon.” Pod looks surprised, and Jaime adds: “That Lady Knight we both adore so much is the best thing to ever happen to me. I rode all the way here to die beside her, and instead I find myself planning our future. If I do somehow manage to fuck this up, my life will not be worth living. I consider myself very fortunate to have gained her trust and her respect; I did not expect to earn her love, but now that I have it…” He is overwhelmed by a surge of emotion and cannot finish the thought. He regains his composure, and concludes: “I hope Brienne knows how lucky she is, to have you defending her.”

Podrick cracks a smile. A wave of sheer relief rushes over Jaime and he defaults to irony in a bid to break the tension:

“Will that suffice, or do I need to open a vein?”

“That won’t be necessary, Ser.”

“Good. Now, let’s get to the Maester before we miss the funeral. After he’s done with me, you can accompany me to my brother’s room so I can change.”

Jaime pushes away from the wall and continues the arduous journey down the stairs, Podrick following close behind.

“But that wasn’t what Milady—“

“This is what you get for threatening your elders, boy. You’re to assist me until I say otherwise. Understood?”

“I… yes, Ser Jaime.”

—J|B—

Brienne is leaving for the funeral, swinging open her chamber door, only to find Jaime on the other side with his hand raised mid-knock. Podrick is just behind him, looking beleaguered, carrying in his arms a somewhat insubstantial pile of neatly-folded clothing, atop which sits Jaime’s golden hand. She almost does not recognise it, at first; after the Long Night the gold has lost its shine and the metal is nicked and dented, stained with dried blood that she hopes is not wholly Jaime’s.

“Oh,” she says in surprise, “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

She stands aside so they can both enter, and Jaime directs Podrick to deposit the load on the table. Brienne watches, unquestioning, as Jaime moves himself and his meagre possessions wholesale into her quarters. A part of her is shocked that he accepted her invitation so readily, but they have grown so comfortable with each other in such a short space of time, the notion of how rapidly they have jumped to this arrangement barely registers in her mind.

Podrick retreats again with a polite nod – “I’ll see you outside, Milady.” – and disappears again, closing the door behind him.

“Did you find the Maester?” she asks Jaime.

“Yes. Tarly is certainly a strange one, but I feel much better. He replaced the stitches and treated me with some kind of salve. A concoction of his own making – poppy milk and some herbs and about a hundred other ingredients I’d never heard of. It should aid the healing process, apparently, as long as I apply it every morning and wrap myself up in swaddling like a newborn babe.”

He is clearly unimpressed with Tarly’s advice, and Brienne cannot help the amused smirk on her face.

“The poppy milk is obviously working,” she points out, noticing that his stance is straighter, and he concedes with a nod. “I hope you were polite.”

“Oh, yes, I was a paragon of gratitude,” he reassures her. “He’d also kept my golden hand safe for me. Whoever attended to me must have removed it and left it where it fell. I didn’t want to take it back, but he looked so pleased with himself I couldn’t bring myself to refuse.” He moves to the table and collects up the prosthesis, rubbing some of the dirt from its surface with his sleeve. “Having said that, I did consider on my way here that it might be best if I keep wearing it in public. For the sake of appearances.”

Such being said, he slides the appendage onto his wrist and begins the arduous one-handed task of securing the straps. Brienne steps forward to help, as familiar in her movements as if she has done it every day, but she stills his fingers under hers for a second.

“I won’t argue, if that’s what you want,” she says, “but I hope you know… you don’t have to wear it, with me. You don’t have to hide.”

He gazes at her for a long moment, then extricates his fingers from beneath hers and reaches to cup her face.

“I know, love.”

He leans forward to kiss her, a chaste press of his mouth which lingers longer than he intended, as she instinctually returns the pressure. Both of her hands raise to encircle his face, the golden hand forgotten, and after a second or two she gently eases him away. Her hands remain where they are, as she realises his beard is considerably less wild than it had been when he left her.

He smiles at the look on her face – part approval, part curiosity – and explains:

“Your squire is very handy with a dagger.”

“I can assure you, he learned that by himself. It certainly wasn’t my doing.”

Jaime hesitates to mention that Podrick had every opportunity to slit his throat during the process, a fact that he had belatedly realised midway through the trim of his beard. Thankfully, he must have been too focused on the task to consider the potential of the weapon in his hand. There is still a need to build trust with Podrick, and Jaime hopes that by making himself so vulnerable, it may at least have paved the way. 

There are many within Winterfell who care much for Brienne, and little for him, and with good reason. Gaining Brienne’s faith is likely not enough to win over a castle full of Northern wolves, but Jaime is determined to try. Lady Sansa had taken Brienne’s word when she vouched for his life: a small step, undoubtedly, and clearly a power move by the Stark girl – Jaime is not blind to the undercurrent of acrimony between the two would-be queens at Winterfell – but more than he should have expected after his family’s treatment of hers.

Creating a basis of trust will take time; it’s not something that can be achieved in a day, especially not _this_ day. Today is for grieving, and later for celebrating, and there will be many more days to follow as preparations are made to move South. He will spend them all with Brienne, proving his devotion to her and those closest to her, and when he finally marries her – there’s no _if_ about that in his mind, it’s as inevitable as winter had once been – it will be with her new-found family’s blessing rather than their warnings to the contrary.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing,” he says, and they return to the abandoned task of securing his golden hand.

After, she appraises his outfit – as many layers as he could sensibly manage to wear to protect him from the harsh climate – with a slightly concerned expression, and suggests that he needs a set of furs if he’s going to survive the North. He knows better than to argue, even if the thought of wandering around in a bear- or wolf-pelt makes him feel uncomfortably _Stark-like_ , because after everything he’s given Brienne she has every right to return the favour. They’re supposed to be _courting_ , after all, even if practical gifts are not the most traditional way of showing it.

Still, he refuses to borrow her cloak a second time, remembering the knowing expression on Podrick’s face as Tarly had attended to his injury, the boy somehow recognising Brienne’s shirt upon his back despite its non-descript appearance. Their new arrangement is not common knowledge yet, and he does not want to be responsible for causing any untoward rumours that might bring Brienne’s stalwart honour into question. The whispers started shortly after his arrival, and he does not wish to give them further fire.

For now, he will endure the cold in whatever form it takes.

—J|B—

The funeral is a sombre affair – not that it should be otherwise – and Jaime feels oddly out-of-place: not just because he is surrounded by Northerners and people who should be his enemies, but because the two people he cares about most in the world are still with him. Regardless, he knows what it is to lose friends and allies in a battle. The Dragon’s Queen grief is palpable, as is Lady Sansa’s. The eldest Stark girl has already lost so much in her relatively short life, thrown into adulthood far too soon as part of Cersei’s cruel games. At least both Mormont and the Greyjoy lad died with honour, like every man, woman and child they are laying to rest this day.

To Jaime’s right, Brienne is watching the proceedings, motionless, her usual impassive and stoic expression never faltering – at least to the untrained eye. He knows her tells better than she would like: the barest wobble in her chin betraying her emotions. Jon Snow’s monologue goes unheard over his head, the King’s dour Northern tones fading into the background; Jaime is too distracted by the sudden need to try and ease Brienne’s pain even though he does not yet know its cause. She is standing to his right and he feels a phantom twitch in his missing hand, itching to entwine his fingers with hers in a gesture of comfort and solidarity. Instead, all he can do is nudge his arm gently against hers and hope that she understands the intent.

A quick glance to his brother suggests he is battling a similar internal struggle. Tyrion’s gaze flits between his Dragon Queen and his former wife, fingers clenching at his side, his loyalty as Hand warring against the tentative friendship – perhaps _more_ , judging by the look on his face – he has tried to rebuild with the eldest daughter of the North. Something had evidently occurred in the crypts; it was still too raw for Tyrion to share the last they spoke. Jaime feels a pang of sympathy for his little brother, knowing all too well that pining after unattainable women will create heartache long before the warmth of reciprocation.

Jon Snow’s sermon reaches its conclusion and the pyres are lit, their searing heat taking some of the edge off the biting chill, plumes of smoke rising upwards. The smell of wood turns soon enough to the acrid stench of burning flesh; several of the smallfolk in attendance cough and cover their noses and mouths. Those in higher positions hold firm, taking shallow breaths, as the heroes of Winterfell are laid to rest.

When Jorah Mormont’s body has been completely consumed by the flames, Daenerys gathers her composure and turns to leave with a quiet authority, silently signalling that everyone else may depart if they wish. Jon reaches for her, but her gait is too quick and his hand closes over the air mere inches from her wrist. He takes a step to follow but is halted by Tyrion standing deliberately in his way, indicating with a shake of his head that he would do best to leave her alone. With a sullen nod, Jon acquiesces, moving instead towards Tormund and a group of other free folk who are watching one of the pyres with grave expressions.

Lady Sansa is faring no better than Daenerys, tears streaming down her face beyond her control as Theon turns to ash. At her side, Arya’s face reveals nothing of her emotions, though her gaze flits between the flames and her sister; she does not know what to do for the best. Eventually, as the smell becomes too much to bear, she wrinkles her nose and turns away. The movement startles Sansa from her trance-like state, as though she had forgotten Arya was there.

They have never been close as sisters, but Arya had been there for Theon’s gruesome final moments, and the guilt weighs heavy that she could not reach the Godswood any quicker. Sansa will not accept an apology, not when Arya’s deeds should be lauded. Instead, the younger Stark communicates silently for Sansa to return indoors – _I’ll watch over him_ – and Sansa blinks away her tears and clasps hands with her sister, squeezing in gratitude, before heading back to the castle to grieve in private.

Tyrion, placeless for a moment, juggling his loyalties, hesitates only briefly before following, his shorter legs jogging to keep up. Jaime watches his brother with a small, wistful smile, until he disappears from view.

Brienne is one of the last to leave, and Jaime resigns himself to remain by her side until she is ready to move, despite the fact he can no longer feel his toes. He wants to speak, to try and draw her out of the shell she has withdrawn into, but he does not know where to begin. A brief glance to Podrick suggests that he, too, is worried for his Lady, and equally as unsure of what troubles her.

Suddenly, Brienne turns on her heel and marches off towards the castle without a word; the two men exchange apprehensive glances before Podrick nods for Jaime to go after her. 

He catches up with her quickly enough, reaching for her arm to slow her down. He half-expects her to jerk away from him, but instead she draws to a halt, allowing Jaime to move to her side. She takes in his concerned expression and heaves a sigh.

“What do you want?”

He is taken aback by her abrupt tone, squeezing her arm as though that might soften her.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

She would pretend to be perfectly fine, in any usual circumstances, but things are different now – or so Jaime would like to think. His instincts do not fail him on this occasion, as Brienne takes some time to respond, weighing up whether to be honest with him or brush him off. Her face falters, bottom lip quivering, before she manages to compose herself.

“We lost so many,” she explains. “Good men – fathers and husbands; sons; brothers. They didn’t deserve their fate.”

He had warned her of that before the battle – _“It’s war. Men will die.”_ – but he knows that will bring little consolation now.

“Maybe not,” he suggests, “but they died with honour. Because of them, the living prevailed.”

“I failed them.”

“Brienne—”

“Don’t. Don’t you _dare_ try to tell me otherwise. They trusted me, and now they’re dead. I should never have—”

“Brienne, that’s not how it works.” She is unable to respond, her eyes sparkling with tears of fury and despair. Jaime’s hand is still pressed against her arm, and he squeezes again, trying to ground her. “You failed nobody. Yes, we lost people, but look how many we still have. All of the people you care about are here. You didn’t fail Podrick, or the Stark girls… or me.”

“But—”

“What did you request of me before the battle?” he asks, not waiting for her to respond before he answers for her: “You asked me to back you up, and to challenge you if I thought you were misguided. Did I fail in my duty, Ser?”

She is evidently perplexed by the question, her brow furrowing, so Jaime continues.

“The men followed your order to retreat, and so did I. At no point did I need to question you or correct your decisions. You did exactly what I would have done – what any good commander would have done. Success in battle is not measured by the lives you lose; it’s measured by those you save.”

Brienne considers his words. She knows he is correct: the scope of what they have achieved is immeasurable, the rest of humanity saved from the Night King’s reign of terror. Yet her gaze flits to the mourning families scattered around the pyres, mothers and children clinging to each other, their plight so much more _immediate_. If it were Podrick amongst those bodies, or Sansa – or Jaime, _Gods_ , as it very nearly was – she would not feel a whit of comfort from knowing that they had died for such a cause.

Jaime follows the line of her gaze, understanding implicitly, and he places himself in front of her, filling her field of vision. She blinks as she focuses on his face, causing tears to escape beyond her control which she discreetly wipes away.

“I’d love to say this gets easier,” he says, “but I’d be lying. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that we harden our hearts against it.” 

Somehow, despite that, he has the feeling that Brienne’s heart will remain as soft as it ever was – and maybe that’s what the world needs. More than hardened warriors with wizened consciences, humanity would benefit from knighted maidens with boundless empathy. He’d like to tell her so, but a sudden rush of absolute joy and adoration overwhelms him, stealing his breath and his words. Her cheeks are still damp from the tracks of her tears, and before Jaime is fully aware of what he’s doing, he steps closer into her, his hand raising to her face and his right arm twining around her waist, because that’s what they _do_ now, isn’t it, now that they’re in love, they exchange kisses and tender touches and comfort each other in times of need—

Brienne jerks back from him with a look of alarm, putting enough distance between them to appear proper but remaining close enough to hiss at him:

“What are you doing?”

“I’m comforting you?”

Her reaction has confounded him so much he’s not even sure any more what his intentions were, but she looks slightly less like a startled deer at his explanation, and at least her tears have stopped.

“I don’t—“ She cuts herself off before she can finish, biting her lip in thought before continuing. “That is, _thank you_ , but… anyone could have seen us.”

“And?” His tone is biting, and she flinches.

“ _And,_ nobody knows about… this – us – our _arrangement.”_ She stumbles over her words, gesturing vaguely into the space between them.

“You’d obviously prefer it to remain that way,” he accuses her. “Gods forbid anyone find out you’ve spend the past day in bed with the most hated man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

His words come out harsher than he intended, and she falls into silence rather than allowing the argument to escalate and cause a spectacle, feeling exposed enough already. It gives Jaime pause, a moment in which to gather his thoughts and analyse his own reaction. It doesn’t take him long, clarity dawning clear as a spring morning, and when he does speak again, the pitch of his voice is lower, softer, his face imploring.

“I’ve been someone’s dirty secret for most of my life. I can’t do it again.”

At that, Brienne’s expression softens in immediate understanding. She casts her gaze about the courtyard, a little frantically, before deciding on a direction and reaching for his hand. She heads off at a brisk pace towards an abandoned out-building, Jaime following mutely behind her. After checking quickly that the building is empty, she slips inside, tugging Jaime in after her. It’s an annexe to the armoury, the floor strewn with dented plates and mail, discarded weapons and shields. It provides some respite from the bitter wind and acrid smoke, though the haze encroaches regardless.

Now that they are here, however, Brienne is unsure of how to proceed; she wants to right the wrong she has inadvertently created, but does not know where to start.

Luckily, Jaime gives her a head start.

“I mean it, you know. I don’t want to sneak around as though we’re doing something immoral. I _love you_ , Brienne, and I want everyone to know that.”

“I don’t want it to be a secret,” she promises. “If I did, Pod wouldn’t be any the wiser. It’s only… I need some time. I’ve never— This is so _new_.”

To her relief, Jaime nods; it’s just as new for him, to be allowed to love someone without repercussions, without the need to hide away. Although, he considers with a hint of irony, Brienne has not done either of them any favours by dragging him behind her to a more private place; the crowd in the courtyard had dwindled during the course of their prior discussion, but there’s still a risk someone might have seen. (A slightly childish and petulant part of him hopes that Tormund was among them.)

“I’d like to tell Lady Sansa, before anyone else,” ponders Brienne, interrupting Jaime’s wandering thoughts. “If she heard about this through the castle’s gossip, she’d never forgive me.”

A smile raises on his face. “If you’re telling Sansa, I’m telling Tyrion.”

“Agreed. But… let’s wait a day or so. Please.”

Jaime sighs, his disappointment tangible, and Brienne reaches to cup his face in her hands; some of the tension eases out of him and she takes that as a positive sign.

“I’m not ashamed. Not of you, not of _this_. I’m just… not accustomed to being the centre of everyone’s interest.”

“I’d rather not draw unnecessary attention to myself either,” he points out, his golden hand coming to rest against her hip. “I’m not suggesting we go everywhere arm in arm, or that we should shout it from the battlements, but I’d like to be able to kiss your hand in public occasionally without worrying that you’ll punch me afterwards.”

An amused smile graces her features: just the barest upturn of her mouth, but the mirth dances in her eyes. “I would _never_.”

“Lying does not become you, my Lady,” he says with a smirk, taking a step nearer, his right arm further encircling her waist. Her hands drop away from his face, resting against the front of his leather jerkin.

“Is that so?”

“Your face gives you away,” he informs her, raising his left hand to gently trace her features. She stiffens, uncomfortable, but does not flinch away from him as she had done in the courtyard. Eventually, his palm comes to rest beneath her ear; his thumb moves lightly across her cheek; she relaxes, more accustomed to this sort of touch. “You would be wholly unsuited to any kind of political career. You are honest to a fault, even when you’re trying not to be.”

He intends it as a veiled compliment, but to his dismay Brienne’s face becomes downtrodden.

“I’m not sure I’m suited to be a knight, either,” she says, her expression just as haunted as before. “I will never grow accustomed to so much death.”

“And nor _should_ you,” Jaime reassures her. “Brienne, you’ve been upholding the vows since well before I met you. The rest is… an unfortunate necessity, at times, but if you become unaffected by it, _that’s_ when you are unsuited to the task.” She looks a little more convinced, and he leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together; his hand falls away to rest over hers, against his chest. “The horror will pass, but it doesn’t go away completely. That’s why we keep fighting, so that others do not have to endure it.”

She sighs, and pulls away, feeling slightly less harrowed; his experience in these matters is comforting, in its own way.

“Thank you,” she says. “For your wisdom, and your patience.”

He looks surprised. “I think that may be the first time either of those words have been used to describe me. Most people would say I’m foolish and impulsive.”

“You _are_ ,” she agrees, “sometimes. But you’re…” She pauses, considering. “You’re _different_ , I think, with me.”

“No,” – he lifts one of her hands, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles – “I’m _better_ ,” – to her palm – “I always am when we’re together,” – and finally to the inside of her wrist, causing her hand to curl involuntarily into a loose fist. Maybe she was right to find somewhere secluded before embarking on this conversation; this sort of behaviour would only raise awkward questions, and the way she flushes pink makes him want to kiss her in far less _innocent_ places, which would be most _im_ patient and utterly _un_ wise. 

Then, she leans closer, her fingers unfurling to rest against his face, and grants him a kiss that is so sweet and tender that he’s absolutely convinced his heart stops, at least until it flutters in his chest again; he feels like a green squire stealing his first kiss from a girl. He savours it for a long moment, the chaste warmth of her mouth against his, until he can no longer resist the urge to reach for her in turn, hand sinking into her hair and his right arm around her back, gathering her against him. He drags her bottom lip between his – he has a vague recollection that she’d particularly enjoyed that, last night – until she opens to him, the sweetness of the honey from their breakfast still lingering on her tongue.

He has thought of kissing Brienne many times over the years, but he had never anticipated how difficult it would be to _stop._

They _should_ stop – this is neither the place nor the appropriate time, their former comrades only just laid to rest, the pyres still smoking – but neither of them can quite summon the inclination or the will-power. They stumble towards the nearest wall, Jaime moving backwards, almost tripping over scattered weaponry on the floor, until she has his back pressed to the stones, and that’s _better_ , actually, because now he doesn’t have to focus quite so much on staying upright with the cold exacerbating his wound, and Brienne’s weight against him is achingly familiar even after such a short time – is it two days? three? since their first kiss? – and _Gods_ he wants to marry her desperately so he can show the entire world how much he loves her.

—J|B—

The sun is almost at its highest point by the time they finally re-emerge from the annexe, flustered and unkempt, sharing private smiles. The yard is practically empty as they make their way back to the castle; Brienne allows Jaime’s hand to drift into hers and their fingers to entangle, not letting go until they are once again within Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI – they were just snogging in the armoury all that time, but obviously Jaime wasn’t kidding about making up for lost time. ;)
> 
> I admit, the concept of Jaime calling Brienne “love” does things to my shipper heart that should be illegal. Gets me right in the feels. There’s no way that Jaime Hearteyes Lannister would come up with some other sickly sweet petname when he can just be direct and to the point, and I like to think Brienne melts a little every single time in spite of herself. (Obviously, he would only use “Ser” when he’s losing an argument.)
> 
> Also: I have no idea what a political career might entail in Westeros (in the sense that I’m not sure “politicians” are a thing in a form we would recognise) but I’m basing Jaime’s comment on the fact that (almost) every politician in every universe and every century is a chronic liar, and, well – look at Varys. (There’s a reason this fic is so soft, and it’s called “current events”. *gestures vaguely at entire world*)
> 
> ANYWAY, next chapter I will deal with a reimagining of the feast scene in the context of this canon-divergence. As for what happens after? Honestly, I don’t know myself yet, but you can guarantee there will be copious amounts of fluff because I have a bottomless pit of the stuff and I’m not afraid to use it. (Anything more than that will depend entirely on how courageous I am feeling. I promise nothing.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suspect this might be the penultimate chapter in this little saga, because I still don’t really have any kind of firm direction for where this is going other than a generic happy-ever-after, and I’m not sure how much more pointless fluff I can eke out of this situation, TBQH. I’d like to say that this fic could potentially become a vessel for my first ever attempt at smut, but it will probably take me at least a decade to write it and even longer to share it, so I won’t make any promises. :P
> 
> (I am still a little new to this ‘ship, relatively speaking – my most longstanding OTP is at 25+ years and counting – but the THINGS these two do to my brain, it’s honestly terrifying.)
> 
> Anyway, in this section Brienne has a little thought journey which is hopefully not too horrendously OOC, and I have attempted to fix the feast/drinking game scene, because I have mixed feelings about the canon version. I loved everything about it up to Tyrion’s awful final guess, so I’ve tried here to incorporate the bits I liked and improve the bits I didn’t. Tyrion is still endearingly terrible, but there’s no virgin-shaming. It’s been a while since I saw the episode, so even though I have lifted some dialogue from the actual scene, it’s more than likely inaccurate or in the wrong place – just go with it. ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

There is no expectation – from either Daenerys or Sansa – for anyone to occupy themselves with anything of importance after the funeral; the families have left Winterfell to grieve in private and those that remain are allowed to use the time before the feast as they see fit. Northerners are a resourceful people, however, and soon enough there are pockets of activity in the grounds of the castle. Brienne feels restless without a purpose, though she in no way regrets the time spent with Jaime if it has reassured him of her own intentions. When Podrick catches her eye and waves her over to a group that has already gathered outside, she does not hesitate to join them. Jaime follows automatically, for a lack of anything better to do.

There are a few hours of daylight remaining to begin the clean-up, removing the debris left in Viserion’s wake, in readiness for rebuilding to start over the next few days. Brienne and Podrick both throw themselves whole-heartedly into the heavy lifting involved, as broken stones and gravel are hauled into awaiting wagons, and those that can be reused are piled up. Jaime is relegated to inventory, at Brienne’s insistence, despite his protests that his left-handed penmanship will likely be illegible.

“You can count?” asks one of the men gruffly. “You know your numbers?”

“Of course I do,” mutters Jaime irritably.

“So, count. Joby here will write it down.”

A lad barely past his sixteenth year is suddenly shoved forwards and a piece of parchment is deposited into his hands. He is covered in cuts and bruises and has clearly partaken in the battle, though he looks barely strong enough to wield a sword and so skinny that the merest breath of wind might knock him over. He looks equally as unimpressed with his assigned task, but neither of them are in any fit state to be hefting stones around, and a sense of mutual solidarity falls between them. So Jaime counts, and Joby scribes.

As dusk falls, Lady Sansa – much recovered, though her face is slightly puffy still from crying – finally re-emerges from the castle to relieve them, instructing the group to rest and clean up before the evening’s festivities. They have made good progress in a short space of time, the ruined wall cleared enough that work can begin soon to rebuild it. Sansa’s expression just barely reflects her surprise at finding Jaime amongst the Northerners, and she gives him a nod of gratitude as the group disperses. It feels like a step forward on the path to gaining her trust.

Brienne’s position at Winterfell affords her the luxury of a private bath in her chambers, whereas Jaime and Podrick must make do with the communal baths within the castle. Jaime needs to obtain a change of clothing from Brienne’s room beforehand, which becomes a mission in nonchalance and stealth; he loiters in the corridor as servants come and go from the room with buckets of water. He does not know anyone well enough to pass the time of day or engage passers-by in conversation, but thankfully nobody pays him any heed and the servants are too busy to notice his presence. 

Eventually, the flurry of activity dies down, the final servant leaving the room. When nobody returns after five minutes or so, Jaime finally manages to approach the door, announcing his presence with a knock. A muffled “Enter,” sounds from within and he pushes open the door.

He is greeted by a startled shriek and a flurry of movement, and it takes him a moment to notice through the haze of sweet-smelling steam that Brienne is clutching her shirt to her chest and that he has caught her in the midst of undressing for her bath.

“Jaime, close the door, for Gods’ sake,” she demands urgently, and he would do as she asks except he has no idea which side of it he should be on. His dilemma must be obvious, because Brienne rolls her eyes impatiently. “Get in or get out, but _close it_.”

Her tone cuts through his indecision and he chooses the former option, stepping over the threshold and tugging the wooden panel closed behind him. For a long moment they are caught in mutual silence, Brienne staring at Jaime as he stares at her, both of them lost for words. She clasps the shirt to herself with both hands, the fabric and her arms protecting her modesty, and she thanks whichever of the Gods might be listening that she had not started on her lower half yet. A part of her considers how ridiculous this situation is, because it’s not as though he’s never _seen_ her, and there was much more of her on display the last time – but, she reminds herself, he was half-delirious from pain and fever and did not have _quite_ such a look on his face.

She blinks and lets out a breath. “I thought you were one of the chambermaids,” she explains, for a lack of anything else to say.

“I… I came for a change of clothes”, he responds absently, still gawking at her. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were—”

“It’s fine.” 

Jaime makes no move to collect the items, almost as though he is rooted to the spot.

“You’ll have to get them yourself,” she points out. “I can’t—”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

Her suggestion finally pierces his bewilderment, and he steps forward, averting his gaze to the floor as he moves past her to pick up what he needs. Brienne stands as unmoving as a statue, attuned to the sound of his footsteps behind her. Soon enough he turns and begins to head past her again, but he suddenly draws to a halt with a sharp intake of breath and she wonders if his injury is causing him pain, until she feels the warmth of him behind her, where he has veered off his intended path.

“ _Gods_ , Brienne… what happened to your shoulder?”

His question puzzles her. “You… you know what happened, Jaime. The bear, it swiped at me before you—”

“No, your _other_ shoulder,” he says. “It’s black and blue.”

 _Oh_. Yes, she had dislocated it during the battle, a wight getting hold of her blade to try and disarm her, yanking so hard and at such an angle that it had wrenched the joint out of alignment. The contusion is more than likely from it being reset, the weight of a full-grown man pushing against her shoulder-blade with all his strength whilst another manipulated her arm back into place. After the wave of blinding agony had subsided, she had barely noticed it beyond a dull ache.

She explains as much to Jaime, but her reassurance that it doesn’t bother her is cut short as he raises his hand as if to soothe away the bruising – he does not quite touch her but the heat from his skin is enough to raise goosebumps down her arms. After a second, he pulls away again.

“What were you thinking, hauling stones about all afternoon, you insufferable woman?”

“You’re hardly one to lecture me, Jaime – you’d have done the same given half a chance.”

He concedes on that point – they are just as obstinate as each other when it comes to downplaying their injuries. She can feel his gaze on her as he appraises the damage, even though her back is turned. 

“I know I can’t force you to rest,” he says, “but at least be careful.”

An argument is on the tip of her tongue, about how she’s not made of glass and is more than aware of her own body’s capabilities, but his tone is so concerned and sincere that she manages to bite it back. Besides, she had intervened herself only an hour ago to prevent him from hurting himself any further. The battle may be over, but they cannot stop themselves from protecting each other.

She acquiesces – “I will,” – and can almost feel Jaime’s relief. When he eventually moves away from her and makes his way to the door, a chill runs down her spine from his absence, despite the blaze in her hearth. 

“Right,” he says, in a more casual tone, trying to break the tension, “I suppose I should leave you in peace before your bath gets cold.” Brienne can only nod in response. “Podrick has promised to save us both a seat at the feast.”

“I’ll see you later, then.”

Just before he turns to leave, he gestures vaguely towards the neatly-laid-out clothing on her bed.

“You should wear the blue shirt, not the grey,” he suggests. Her only response is a questioning look, and he lifts his gaze to hers as he explains: “It brings out your eyes.”

She graces him with a smile, just the barest upturn of her mouth, and nods. “As you wish.”

“Until later, my lady.”

With that, he slips back out into the corridor.

She waits until his footsteps have well and truly disappeared before approaching the door and bolting it, to prevent any further unwarranted visitors or interruptions. She should probably give thought to obtaining a screen; in truth, certain practicalities had not occurred to her when agreeing for Jaime to move into her quarters. The notion crosses her mind that perhaps they have rushed into such an arrangement, barely two days into what Jaime has deemed their _courtship_ , but just as quickly it is overtaken by the knowledge of how empty her bed would feel without him.

Besides, nothing about them has ever been conventional.

When she finally manages to sink into her bath, the water has retained its heat – not as scalding as she would prefer, but warm enough that it causes her various cuts to sting. The maids have strewn medicinal herbs and fragrant lavender onto the surface, the effect so relaxing that she could easily take a nap; it’s certainly tempting, except for the fact that if she does not show up at the celebration she will never hear the end of it. Still, she savours the bath for longer than is strictly necessary, indulging in the opportunity to soothe her battle-bruises and new-found aches from an afternoon of manual labour.

The silence and solitude give Brienne a moment to reflect on the past few days. The events since her knighting have passed in a blur, her emotions running from one extreme to the other with barely a chance to regroup. Jaime has been at the centre of everything: gifting her a knighthood and a first kiss, scaring her almost to death at the conclusion of the battle, filling her heart with despair one minute and absolute joy the next. There are no half-measures, and it’s _always_ been that way between them, but the encounters have usually been further apart with more time to recover her senses. Now that their mutual feelings are out in the open, it’s as though a floodgate has been opened.

Perhaps that’s why she is suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of unease and disbelief. Until now, any doubts she might have harboured have been quashed as swiftly as they have arisen. Although Jaime has made his intentions more than obvious, she is terrified of disappointing him. Even the memory of the look on his face only minutes ago, catching her in a state of undress, is not enough to shake the feeling. The voice of Septa Roelle echoes in the back of her mind, as it always does in such moments of self-deprecation, reminding her that such ladylike pursuits as _romance_ are beyond her grasp. She had chosen to become a warrior in defiance of her Septa’s harsh words, following a path that would have been denied her otherwise, whilst forever tamping down the foolish yearnings of her heart.

Whether wisely or not, her heart has chosen Jaime, in spite of her best efforts to the contrary. _We don’t choose who we love_ , he had told her once, and she had certainly not made a conscious decision to fall for the most unattainable man in Westeros. She doubts that Jaime would have chosen _her_ , either, in any usual circumstances, and perhaps their miserable trek through the Riverlands would have had a very different outcome if not for Harrenhal.

Despite knowing their mutual history, she still cannot quite see how they ended up here, but to complain about it would be ridiculous. As impossible as it might seem, Jaime _does_ love her – any lingering uncertainty about that has disappeared, because Brienne knows how men look when they mock her and Jaime more so than anyone, and he has given her more sincerity in the past couple of days than during their entire acquaintance in the years prior. The intentions of his _heart_ are not the thing that concerns her.

When she considers what he’s had _before_ , she knows there is no comparison. Brienne is not blind; she knows what she looks like. She wears her armour as much for what it hides than what it symbolises. Septa Roelle gave up on teaching her to conduct herself as soon as it became apparent she would not stop growing, her limbs too gangly for proper deportment and her fingers too clumsy for needlework; she has never learned how to be a lady in any of the ways society would accept, and her appearance saw fit to absolve her of the rest.

Maybe, she considers, as her armour and sword catch her eye from across the room, reflecting the flickering patterns of the firelight, just maybe, it doesn’t particularly matter. She was wearing them both when Jaime knighted her, _and_ when he kissed her for the first time; if she had let him continue speaking before the battle, she would have been wearing them as he confessed his feelings, too. He knows what she is, and he loves her anyway. _Love is knowing your flaws and wanting you in spite of them._ The same words she had used to try and reassure him come back to her, flooding into her brain, a harsh reminder that she should stop over-thinking. 

The bath has cooled enough to be mildly uncomfortable when she finally scrubs herself clean, ridding herself of any lingering remnants of the Long Night, but her fire is still warm and there’s fine food and good company to look forward to in the Great Hall. She is thankful for that, and for the fact that she nobody expects her to wear a dress, considering she’s already late.

—J|B—

By the time Brienne reaches the Great Hall, the celebration is in full swing, a wall of raucous sound and overpowering aromas bombarding her as she enters the room. She scans the room briefly before locating Podrick and Jaime, her squire waving her over with a jovial expression to a spare seat beside him. 

She weaves her way carefully through the crowd, making way for serving girls hoisting massive silver platters amongst the tables or scurrying back and forth with jugs of wine and ale, dodging to avoid splashes from wayward cups raised with jubilant cheers, before finally finding her place at the table. She has to wonder if the arrangement is deliberate on Pod’s part, as she finds herself directly opposite Jaime. As soon as she sits, a goblet is deposited in front of her and filled with wine, followed by an empty plate for her to take her fill from the ample fare laid out down the length of the table. The choice is overwhelming and she asks Podrick for his recommendations. He is already well into his cups and prattles on about the venison and the rabbit stew with more enthusiasm than the situation warrants, but she barely takes in his words as she catches Jaime’s eye, watching as he slowly appraises her outfit – the blue shirt, as he suggested, complemented by a smart leather jerkin subtly embroidered with tiny silver stars, stylised suns tooled around each of the hooked clasps down its front: a gift from Lady Sansa for her last name-day, designed to match her sword-belt – and finds herself flushing under his gaze.

As the evening progresses, the drink flows freely and the salvers are never empty, a seemingly endless procession of fresh bread accompanying every course. Brienne is not usually one to partake of wine, but she downs nearly four cups without even realising. It’s only when she reaches for some bread, rising slightly from her seat only to collapse back into it again as her head swims, that she realises how much she has imbibed. She can’t even be offended when Podrick starts laughing, because it’s frankly ridiculous how badly the alcohol is affecting her. She dares not try to stand again, and before she can ask Jaime reaches over himself to pass her the bread basket, barely concealing his own amusement at her predicament. He seems barely even tipsy and she feels a little envious.

The wine jug appears in her periphery again, the servants possessing a kind of sixth sense when it comes to empty goblets, and she places her hand over the rim to prevent any more being poured into it. To her utmost surprise, Jaime’s hand drops to cover hers, lingering for longer than strictly necessary before dragging her away from the cup’s edge. She gives him a quizzical look, and he explains:

“We fought the dead and survived. If now isn’t the time to celebrate, when is?”

From the knowing look on his face, she understands that he is not merely referring to their victory in battle. His hand remains in contact with hers, his thumb gently caressing her skin; for a long moment she is lost, timeless, as their eyes meet across the table. It’s only when Podrick clears his throat a little _too_ nonchalantly that they finally break apart, and she reaches for her newly-filled goblet and takes another swig to distract herself.

After Daenerys has made her speech and there’s a lull, finally, in the meal, Tyrion makes his way over to join them, squeezing another chair into the space beside Jaime and causing a moment of temporary chaos as others in the row are forced to move down. Trays of desserts are brought out for people to choose at their leisure – fresh fruit with honey, sweet pastries and lemon cakes (Sansa’s favourite, Tyrion informs them casually). The feast is undoubtedly impressive, possibly the best that any of them will enjoy for a long time to come.

Brienne makes a decision to sip her wine more slowly, to try and make it last. That plan is immediately dashed to the rocks as Tyrion hails down a passing servant, relieves them of an entire jug, and announces that a drinking game is in order.

The rules are simple, he explains: a guess is made about someone’s past, and if correct, they must drink. If not, the guesser drinks. He seems a little unclear as to how one knows who the winner is, waving his hand in a vague gesture and muttering something about drinking Bronn under the table, which Brienne does not find particularly reassuring. She elects to merely watch for the first few rounds, as the Lannister brothers guess back and forth about each other. They have a distinctly unfair advantage which renders the competitive element pointless, before Podrick gets to grips with the rules and joins in, and eventually all three of them persuade her into participating.

It quickly transpires that Pod has been sharing her secrets, as Jaime guesses correctly about her dancing with Renly as a girl; there is a hint of challenge to his tone, as though daring her to deny it. Podrick merely shrugs and grins at her.

Somehow, she manages to score a point against Tyrion – “You were married, before Sansa!” – and then loses another in the next round when he evidently does _not_ prefer ale to wine: a foolish guess considering how much of the stuff he has consumed since joining them. They’re already on a second jug and Brienne has lost track of how many cups she’s had.

Jaime’s next guess is surprising.

“You are an only child.”

It’s not _technically_ true, but there’s probably no better term for it now; she hasn’t always been an only child, but she’s certainly the last of her line, so—

She is distracted by Jaime’s expectant face and the sight of Tyrion slumping against him affectionately in his inebriated state, pouting in sympathy at Brienne’s plight because being an only child must surely be a fate worse than death. The sheer power of their sibling bond momentarily knocks the wind out of her – that despite their differences and difficulties, they are here together in this moment after the battle, and she’s _glad_ , for both of them, a gladness that raises a smile on her face and cheerful lilt to her voice when she finally responds, incredulously:

“I told you that!”

“You didn’t.”

“I _did_.”

Jaime shakes his head and smiles. “I _surmised_ it.”

“You—”

“Drink!” demands Tyrion, thumping his fist on the tabletop, and she complies, draining her cup of its last dregs and not even complaining when Podrick refills it for her.

The game continues, the next few rounds alternating between Podrick and the younger Lannister, whilst Brienne nurses her wine and watches the exchange with increasing fondness. The alcohol is singing through her veins, warming her from the inside out. She laughs whole-heartedly at one of Tyrion’s awful jokes without feeling the need to rein herself in; she knows it’s the wine lowering her inhibitions, but she is enjoying herself too much to care.

Suddenly, her focus is drawn elsewhere, as Jaime’s hand touches hers – feather-light, the merest brush of his finger against the back of her knuckles where they are clasped around the goblet – all of her attention honing in on the point of contact. She glances down briefly before lifting her head to meet his gaze, and finds him staring at her with an unreadable expression. His smile is wistful, his face softening slightly as their eyes meet, all of the background noise of the Great Hall fading to a dull thrum.

“Ser Brienne!” yells Tyrion, jolting her back to reality. “It’s your turn to guess!”

Jaime’s hand moves away, and he seems to take all of her courage with him. She wracks her brain for something to say, but the wine has made her slow and she gives up.

“I’m sorry, my Lord – your early life is an elusive mystery. I think I’m all out of guesses.”

“Then I’ll go again,” he suggests, readily volunteering, and Brienne snorts out a laugh.

“You’ve had more goes than all of us combined,” she points out, failing slightly to get her indignation across when she is so clearly amused by his antics.

Tyrion puffs out his chest with an air of self-importance. “It’s my game.”

She leans back in her chair and waves her hand in his general direction.

“Very well. Go ahead. I’m sure Podrick has already shared all of my secrets.”

“Fear not, Ser Brienne, my goblet is full,” Tyrion assures her, “though I’m certain it will not be needed.”

She rolls her eyes, at that, because there’s nothing else remotely interesting about her past that Podrick has not already divulged.

In the ensuing silence, Tyrion adopts a thoughtful expression as he weighs up the options ahead of him, appraising Brienne from across the table. His analytical gaze sweeps across all three of his companions, collating evidence in his mind. Brienne’s own gaze flits between the two brothers, Jaime’s countenance becoming suddenly troubled, as though he can sense exactly what Tyrion is about to say and would very much prefer him not to.

Tyrion’s face suddenly lights up, as though he has figured out a particularly difficult mathematical equation, and he leans forward conspiratorially towards Brienne.

“You,” he says, pausing to give his announcement greater emphasis, “are in love with my brother.”

Panic and embarrassment both slam into her, settling like lead in the pit of her stomach and stilling her tongue with indecision. She does not want to deny it with Jaime present, but equally she does not want to admit anything. 

Jaime attempts to interject – “That’s a statement about the present,” – but Tyrion holds up a hand in a halting gesture to silence him, before correcting his assumption:

“You _have been in love_ with my brother for some time. Years, I would say.”

She can feel her face burning, eyes stinging with tears of abject frustration that it should come to light like _this_. A sideways glance towards Podrick tells her that he had no part in it, as he is staring into the depths of his goblet and trying very hard to be invisible. When she risks a glance towards Jaime, his own face is openly apologetic and somehow that’s _worse_ , because now it looks like a polite rejection.

She attempts to stammer out an explanation that will not incriminate her further, but is once again interrupted by the younger Lannister.

“Wait. I hadn’t finished my guess. There are two sides to this situation. You see, Ser Brienne, my brother is also very much in love with you.”

At that, she is unable to tear her gaze from Jaime’s face, as it flits through murderous intent towards his brother, to acceptance that the secret is out, to the softness she has grown so accustomed to. For several long seconds, they merely stare at each other in silence, until Jaime’s expression becomes a little mischievous. She is unsure as to why until he tilts his goblet very slightly in her direction, as though suggesting a toast. Understanding dawns just as Tyrion is lifting his own cup in defeat; she lifts her goblet to tap gently against Jaime’s and they both take hearty gulps.

Tyrion halts with his drink mere inches from his lips, staring at them in disbelief, and even Podrick is gaping at them in surprise. Jaime sets down his cup and immediately reaches for Brienne’s hand, bringing it to his mouth and bestowing a tender kiss to her knuckles. This time, her blush is from self-consciousness more than anything else.

At her side, Podrick is grinning delightedly at the display, as things finally fall into place in Tyrion’s brain, and he raises his arms in defeat.

“Well, I see my attempt at matchmaking came too late. Do I presume congratulations are in order?”

“As long as they’re subtle,” suggests Jaime, as he releases Brienne’s hand again. “This isn’t public knowledge yet.”

“I shall be as silent as one of Varys’s little birds,” he promises, which does not fill either of them with confidence, and raises his cup. “A toast, then. To Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne, Knights of the Seven Kingdoms, Heroes of the Long Night, and two of the most oblivious idiots in all of Westeros.”

Jaime shoots him an accusing glare. “Careful, brother. I assured Brienne you were pleasant. Don’t make me a liar.”

Tyrion laughs heartily. “I am the Imp, and I will celebrate my dolt brother and his lady love however I like!”

“Oh, please be quiet,” implores Brienne.

Tyrion mutters something unintelligible and takes a swig of wine, but he does at least lower his voice.

“Fine. If you insist on _pleasantness_ , hopefully you will take me at my word when I say how happy I am for you both. If you could just hurry up and tell everyone else, I can collect my winnings.”

“What? _What_ winnings?” she asks incredulously.

“There’s a wager on how long it would take the two of you to finally admit your _very obvious_ feelings,” explains Tyrion. “I stand to win a small fortune. That is, assuming this did in fact occur before the battle?”

Jaime looks thoughtful for a moment before asking: “Just how _specific_ were the stakes?”

“Jaime!”

At Brienne’s incredulity, Jaime merely shrugs, shooting her a winning smile. Tyrion is more than happy to oblige with details, as Brienne merely watches the exchange with growing disbelief.

“Let’s start simple. The confession – before or after?”

“After.”

“Excellent! So I must assume the same is true for the kiss?”

“Ah, no, that was before.”

“Of course it was. Why would you do anything in the right order?” He tilts his goblet towards Brienne’s squire. “Podrick, it appears we both came out winners.”

“Not you as well!” Brienne admonishes him with an appalled tone, and he flinches under her gaze.

“Sorry, m’lady. It was just a bit of fun.”

“At my… at _our_ expense. Honestly, I expected better from you, Pod.”

“Just how many of you were in on this?” asks Jaime, more amused by the wager than anything else. 

Tyrion lists them off, counting on his fingers. “As well as Pod and I – Davos, Tarly, Gendry, and Arya. I was close to persuading Sansa, but as Lady of Winterfell she thought it would set a bad example. Oh, and Tormund, who rather optimistically bet on _himself_. Poor fellow.”

“Oh, he’s going to be _devastated_ ,” says Jaime, looking inordinately pleased with himself.

“Arya, too?” For some reason, Brienne finds that the most difficult to understand. Arya has barely given Jaime the time of day since his arrival, and it seems impossible that she would have observed their interactions enough to form an opinion either way.

“Yes. She suggested it happened years ago,” explains Tyrion. “So she’s definitely down a groat or two. That is, unless…” He looks suspicious.

“Unless what?” asks Jaime.

“Unless you are truly the most backwards man in existence and you’ve actually been fu—”

“Enough!”

“—ing each other this entire time.” Tyrion takes in his brother’s incredulous expression and Brienne’s evident discomfort. “Based on your reactions, I’m assuming not.”

Jaime takes a deep breath, reining in the overwhelming desire to strangle his little brother.

“I will never understand how Daenerys hasn’t fed you to one of her dragons yet.”

“You _wound_ me, brother,” he says with mock horror, pressing a hand to his heart.

“No, _wounding_ you is what I’ll do if you don’t keep that vulgar little mouth of yours shut.”

They continue bickering, eventually resorting to personal insults that are more childish than malicious, until Tyrion accidentally – or so he claims – kicks Jaime in the leg and is rewarded with a smack around the head. Jaime has the good grace to reach over with his left hand to deliver the blow, rather than risking serious injury from the impact of gold upon flesh.

Podrick is crying with laughter as he watches the brothers arguing, whilst Brienne nurses her final few mouthfuls of wine and observes the exchange with a fond expression. When the fight turns physical, however, she decides that enough is enough and swallows the remainder of her drink in one gulp, setting the goblet down firmly on the table and rising to her feet in the hopes of distracting them.

It has the desired effect, at least, both Lannisters ceasing in their quarrel to turn and look at her with equally surprised faces.

Brienne honestly had not given any thought to leaving the celebration until much later into the evening, but standing has made her head reel and the room start spinning, a sharp reminder of just how much she has had to drink. She grips onto the back of the chair to retain her balance, swaying slightly, and considers that she would probably be better off in bed.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen,” she announces, hoping it does not come out as slurred as it seems to her own ears, “I must retire for the evening.”

All three of her companions react with disappointment and a chorus of persuasive noises, but she waves them silent, immediately regretting the movement when it hampers her already-precarious equilibrium.

“I must insist,” she responds. “Thank you, Lord Tyrion, the game was most enjoyable.”

He raises his goblet towards her with a warm smile. “It was my pleasure, Ser Brienne.”

In any usual circumstances she would give Podrick a lecture on not drinking too much, but given her own current state that would be terribly hypocritical. Instead, she merely nods at him with a knowing expression. 

Finally, she turns to Jaime, trying to pre-emptively navigate how to take her leave without sharing unnecessary details about their new arrangement in the process. Eventually, she takes a more brusque approach than either of them would like, bidding him goodnight quickly and then turning to leave.

She manages approximately two steps before the alcohol sloshing around her brain causes her to pitch sideways. She manages to brace herself against the table’s edge, dimly aware that some nearby people are guffawing at her embarrassing display, before the sound of Jaime’s chair scraping across the floor attracts her attention. He rises and moves swiftly around the end of the table to reach her, hauling her upright and encouraging her to drape an arm around his shoulders for stability.

“It’s probably best if I accompany you,” he suggests, and she does not have the energy to argue, complying with a nod. The thought of her own bed is far preferable to passing out in a corridor somewhere in Winterfell, and she trusts Jaime to get her back to her quarters safely.

Jaime says his farewells to their companions, and together they make their way out of the Great Hall, his left arm settling around her waist to help her along. She’s unsteady enough that hopefully, nobody will interpret his actions as anything other than helping a friend in need; they are certainly not the first pair to leave the room in such a fashion.

Somewhere on the other side of the room, Tormund watches them leave, a crestfallen expression on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in the canon version of the feast scene, I legitimately loved every single one of the interactions between Jaime and Brienne, and latterly Tyrion, right up to the virgin-shaming (and even then Jaime did his best to rectify things), and I thought it might be interesting to explore those interactions within the context of them having an established relationship – in particular, an established relationship which is not yet out in the open.
> 
> My sincere apologies that this chapter did not live up to my usual standard of fluff – it was supposed to include a follow-up scene which will now formulate part of the next chapter, but I didn’t realise quite how many words I’d need for the drinking game. Regardless, drunk!Brienne was fun to write, and whilst I’m still practising with writing Tyrion, hopefully I managed to portray him as affectionately as I hoped. In my head, drunk!Tyrion is the human embodiment of the “I am a goddamned delight” EffinBird. He has been my favourite character from the very beginning so I hope I did him justice.
> 
> I am also a sucker for Lannister brothers getting to spend time together, so this story casually ignores all the prior difficulties between them in favour of post-battle relief reminding them of what they had and could have lost. I think we saw a little of that in “Last of the Starks” in the scene with Bronn but it’s another thing I would have loved to see more of if we’d been granted more time/episodes. If we disregard most of “The Bells” and their entire conversation, my favourite moment was the Jaime/Tyrion bit, and I’m hoping to explore that a bit further in “The Things We Do”, if this story EVER shuts up.
> 
> Anyway, probably one more chapter to go before I put this story to bed for a bit, unless it tells me otherwise.
> 
> Please do let me know your thoughts. =)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be the last chapter (albeit I would have left it open-ended), but I think I actually know where this story is going now! I can't say how many more chapters there will be, but I don't think it will be epic – maybe four remaining, at the most. I just need to let my concept for the plot percolate a bit longer, but it will continue in the theme of being a self-indulgent season 8 reimagining. Such being said, there may be a bit of a delay in the next chapter arriving whilst I figure out where to go next (not that I am any good at writing to a schedule in the first place…)
> 
> In the meantime, here we have the longest chapter so far in this tale (it's about twice as long as any of the others), where you will find a pinch of angst, a tonne of fluff to make up for the last chapter (by which I mean a LOT of kissing) and a slightly different aftermath to the post-battle celebration than in canon – though in keeping with earlier chapters, I have tried to incorporate some similar elements and I couldn't resist stealing one line in particular. It picks up a few short minutes after the end of the previous chapter, i.e. Brienne and Jaime leaving the feast.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. =)
> 
> [Re-uploaded 26/08/2020 with a few minor corrections / omitted repetitiveness.]

“Seven Hells, Jaime, it’s freezing out here!”

He’s brought her outside, despite her protests when she realised where they were heading, in the hopes of shocking some of the alcohol from her system. He has to bite back a laugh at her disapproving expression and her uncharacteristic cursing, though the latter sends an unprecedented shudder down his spine. (After all, wasn’t it just the same thing that compelled him to travel North in the first place?)

“Yes, I know,” he agrees. “It’ll help sober you up. Trust me.”

“You could have warned me,” she mutters.

He does laugh, then. “I did. You refused, and I ignored you.”

She rubs her arms against the outside chill, realising to her utter chagrin that the shock of the frigid temperature has indeed cleared some of the fuzziness from her brain. Not that she would admit it to Jaime’s face.

“Well, when it comes to drinking, I have to concede that your expertise vastly surpasses mine,” she observes with faux-seriousness. “You’ve clearly had more opportunity to practice. _Some_ of us have found better ways of spending our time than being...” – she prevaricates, waving a hand as she tries to find the right word, then gesturing to encompass his general person – “drunken reprobates.”

“I’ll assume that’s the wine talking, and let that comment slide.” He huffs, breath billowing in the cold air. “Anyway, Tyrion is _definitely_ more of an expert in this particular field. I have no idea where he puts it all.”

Brienne’s linen shirt and leather jerkin offer little protection from the elements and she shivers, appraising Jaime warily – he is not dressed for the weather either, and it’s strange for him _not_ to complain about the frozen temperatures of the North. 

“How are you not cold?” she asks him, unable to keep the incredulity from her voice.

“Wine,” he responds jovially. “Warms the blood. Keeps you toasty.”

“Actually,” she adds, her eyes narrowing suspiciously, “how are not _drunk_?”

“Believe me – I am. You _must_ be drunk if you think I’m not.”

She tries to make sense of his words and fails utterly, though she’s not sure if that’s because her own brain is half-pickled or because Jaime is making even less sense than usual. Giving up, she surveys their surroundings instead, trying to work out where they are. In her inebriated state, she cannot quite get her bearings, other than to acknowledge that they are not on ground level. A stone balustrade looks out over the main courtyard of Winterfell, peaceful now after the earlier activity of the day. She hopes fervently that Jaime knows his way back to her quarters from here.

She approaches the edge, iced-over snow crunching underfoot as she walks, and leans her hands against the wall, taking in a deep lungful of frosty air. It helps to settle the nausea roiling in her stomach.

“At least it’s not snowing,” says Jaime as he approaches.

“Small mercies,” she responds grumpily. “My head feels clearer. Can we go back inside now?”

“We _could_ ,” he agrees, “but it’s such a clear night, it seems a shame to waste it.”

He’s exaggerating; the sky is not completely clear, but after the blizzard its inky blackness is streaked with blue-grey clouds, bright pinpricks of stars peeking through; a full moon, half-hidden, illuminating the haze from within. It’s undoubtedly pretty, more aesthetically pleasing than any winter’s night ought to be, but it’s hardly worth the effort of freezing to death.

Brienne is just about to suggest as much when Jaime draws up close behind her and wraps his arms around her, enveloping her in warmth. It transports her back to the hours following the battle, sunrise slowly dawning, heartfelt confessions in the morning light. She surrenders to a contented sigh, tugging Jaime’s arms tighter and shimmying backwards, further into his embrace.

“Very well, Ser – I am persuaded.”

“I had a feeling you might be,” he says, a low chuckle resonating from within his chest. He settles his chin upon her shoulder and stretches to press a kiss to her cheek.

How long they remain like that, neither can say. The night is peaceful, the silence punctuated only by the distant cry of wolves as they prowl the wilderness, the hoot of an owl somewhere in the Godswood. One day in the not-so-distant future, this could be Tarth on a summer’s night, the crash of waves, the singing of crickets and night-birds – or the squalling of a new-born babe. Jaime’s chest rises and falls on a sigh, echoing Brienne’s own yearning thoughts.

She is generally not one to dwell on daydreams of how her life might turn out, especially when they are so outlandishly romantic, but Jaime’s own vision of their future has continued to play out in her head, filling her with hope. She can forget, for a brief moment, that the war is not yet over; she can pretend that Jaime is hers alone. 

All too soon, the current surroundings and the situation they are yet to face encroach into her reverie, her contentment at Jaime’s presence warring with her need to distance herself, to steel herself against inevitable disappointment. She shifts away from him, not abruptly, though he releases her with a jolt of surprise nonetheless; when she turns to face him and furthers the distance between them, he does not protest, though the dejected look on his face pierces straight to her heart.

“What’s wrong?”

She hesitates a moment, unable to find the words to explain even if she wasn’t sluggish from wine.

“I’m just tired, Jaime. That’s all.” She offers him the barest of smiles. “I’m not used to drinking – it’s gotten the better of me.”

He concedes with a nod, and straightens his posture as if to lead the way back inside, but something makes him pause. It takes Brienne far too long to realise that Jaime is staring at her with an appraising eye, and perhaps it’s the alcohol making her braver than usual, but she does not feel the immediate need to hide away. The gifted jerkin from Sansa is made to measure, lightly cinching in her waist and giving her a more feminine shape, creating the illusion of womanly curves. The stars are embroidered by hand (by Sansa herself) and embellished with tiny glass beads that glitter in the moonlight. Without a full-length mirror in her chambers, Brienne did not have the benefit of assessing her own appearance before leaving for the feast, but from the look on Jaime’s face she can only assume the effect is pleasing.

He closes the space between them and lifts his hand to her shoulder, fingertips lightly brushing over one of the stars, his touch hesitant. The warmth of his hand radiates outwards, provoking a shiver down her spine as his thumb just barely touches the sensitive skin of her neck.

“Is this new?” he asks. “I’ve never seen it before.”

She manages to nod, using the motion of her head to swallow nervously, her throat suddenly dry.

“Yes. It was a gift from Lady Sansa.”

His hand inches away and hovers for a moment, indecisive, before dropping to the dip of her waist.

“She has good taste. Tell her I approve.”

Brienne rolls her eyes, at that, because impressing Jaime Lannister was probably the furthest thing from Sansa’s mind when commissioning the garment. A sarcastic riposte is on the tip of her tongue, but it does not reach fruition, as Jaime’s hand slides around to the small of her back and he moves in closer, his eyes never leaving hers. She indulges in the temptation of insinuating her hands inside the open front of his jacket, seeking some reprise for her frozen fingers.

Jaime cannot tear his gaze from her face, the moonlight illuminating her eyes to a darker but no less fascinating shade of blue, the wine and the frost raising a delightful pink tinge to her cheeks and nose. He leans in, Brienne’s eyes drifting closed in anticipation as he stretches up to meet her mouth—

“Oh. Excuse me!”

A low voice in the doorway jolts them apart, Brienne almost leaping away from him as though scalded, and they turn towards the interruption. To their mutual relief, it’s Tyrion standing in the archway, goblet still in hand and an apologetic look on his face.

“I was hoping I might find you out here,” he says. “My sincerest apologies for the intrusion, Jaime, Ser Brienne – but I thought it best to inform you. Tormund saw you leaving the Great Hall together, and it seems an excess of ale has made him thirsty for vengeance. You’d best make yourselves scarce.”

Brienne looks positively appalled by this new development, either at Tormund’s persistence or inadvertently causing him heartache, possibly both.

“Thanks for the warning,” says Jaime.

Brienne nods in agreement and heads back towards the corridor, Tyrion stepping aside to let her through into the passage behind him. As Jaime follows, he finds himself momentarily halted by his brother clasping onto his wrist, just above the cuff of his golden hand.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just… good to see you happy, brother.” Tyrion smiles. “It’s been a long time coming, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous.”

If Jaime was more sober, he might attempt to impart some words of encouragement in return, though he doubts they would be very enlightening. Instead, he claps Tyrion on the shoulder in gratitude, squeezing gently, before releasing him and following Brienne into the darkness of the passageway.

—J|B—

They meander slowly back to Brienne’s quarters, side by side, fingers linked together; Jaime had sought out her hand immediately on catching up with her, and since then she has held firm and not let go. There’s no danger of anyone seeing – the majority of the castle’s inhabitants are still celebrating in the Great Hall, and those that aren’t will doubtless be sequestered away somewhere more private.

Somehow, Brienne seems more certain of her surroundings now they are indoors, though to Jaime every corridor in Winterfell looks much the same as its neighbours. Brienne is steadier on her feet now, too, the outside air having achieved its intended purpose, though a part of him regrets that he has no further excuse to drape an arm around her waist.

The labyrinthine thoroughfares are dimly lit by torches in sconces, just about adequate to see where they are going. The spaces between are populated, alternately, by ornate tapestries depicting direwolves and bare trees, or empty floor-to-ceiling alcoves built into the wall. Jaime can vaguely recall similar spaces, elsewhere in the castle, housing plinths and imposing statues of former Starks, though on this level they are mostly vacant, ready and waiting for future generations to be immortalised in stone.

Passing one such alcove, Brienne hesitates momentarily, casting a glance towards the darkened space with a curious smile, but they continue on. At the next, she stops completely, Jaime only becoming aware from the resistance against his arm, and he takes a step back to draw level with her.

“Brienne?”

“Hm?” 

She is distracted by whatever has captured her attention and he takes a light approach to try and draw a response from her.

“Hoping they’ll build a statue in your honour? I think you’d have to change your name first. I wouldn’t worry – they’re bound to memorialise you on Tarth at some point.”

“Oh… no, it’s not that,” she mutters absently, refocusing. “I was just remembering something.”

“Do tell.”

She doesn’t answer straight away, chewing on her lip for a moment before deciding to share her thoughts.

“Before the battle,” she reminds him, “after you’d kissed me and we were walking back… we passed one of these on the way, and I briefly considered…”

She lets the thought trail off, but Jaime has a fairly good idea of what she had been about to say. He gives her time to finish, but self-consciousness overtakes her and she averts her gaze to the floor.

“Well?” he prods.

She lifts her eyes to his again, then takes a step backwards, tugging him by the hand as she manoeuvres herself into the recess with her back against the stones. She releases his digits, but only so she can reach for the front of his jacket and yank him further into her personal space. The light from the sconces either side is barely enough to see each other, the darkness of the alcove hiding them almost entirely from sight of anyone passing. In the torchlight, at such close proximity, there’s a mischievous glint in her eye that Jaime is certain he’s never seen before today.

“This?” he questions.

Brienne shakes her head and gives one final, firm tug against his jacket, dragging him flush against her, before pressing her mouth to his. The wine has made her bold, her kiss firm and demanding; he rises up on his toes to better give her what she wants, sinking back down again as she melts into him. Her lips part instinctually for Jaime’s searching tongue and a satisfied moan escapes his throat – it feels like an eternity since the armoury and he’s been wanting to kiss her since the feast. During Tyrion’s game it had taken every ounce of his self-control not to vault across the table and claim her mouth, propriety and caution be damned. Her joyous laughter and relaxed smiles had ignited a spark that could not be quenched, pitching him headlong in love with her even more than he already was.

Just as abruptly, she pulls away again, leaving him breathless and stunned.

“ _That_ ,” she clarifies with an amused tone.

For a second, all he can manage is a strangled, “ _Gods_ ,” leaning his forehead against hers whilst he catches his breath. He pulls back with a shuddery exhale. “Why _didn’t_ you? I certainly wouldn’t have complained.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to.“

"Brienne, I’d half-considered doing the same thing myself.”

“So why didn’t _you_?”

“I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You could never—“

Jaime cuts her off by pressing his hand over her mouth, quietening her with an urgent expression. Her confusion is obvious, at least until a familiar, booming voice echoes from around the nearest corner.

“Where are you, Kingkiller? Try to steal my woman, would you? Come out and fight me for her, if you’ve got the balls!”

As Tormund’s heavy footsteps grow closer, Jaime huddles in tighter and hopes that the darkness will be enough to hide them. The wildling continues ranting as he passes, weaving unsteadily from side to side from the substantial amount of ale in his system, disappearing down a staircase at the other end of the passage. There’s a distant clatter as he stumbles down the final few steps, swearing at whoever tries to help him back up, before he stomps away and the noise finally subsides.

Brienne lets out a breath as Jaime withdraws his hand, then emits an inelegant snort of laughter which raises a delighted grin on Jaime’s face.

“I could take him on, I think,” he ponders.

“It wouldn’t be a fair fight,” she suggests. 

“I’m much better with my left hand these days.”

“That’s not the point. He’s brute strength with no finesse, and he doesn’t follow the rules in the best of circumstances.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” he teases with a slightly envious tone.

“I am,” she says. “Trust me; I’ve tried sparring against him and it’s not worth the effort. He nearly took Podrick’s bloody head off, swinging his sword around like a fool after he’d knocked me into the dirt. He’s an overgrown _child_.” She shakes her head in disapproval. “Anyway, you don’t need to fight for me.”

“Don’t I? He seems a persistent sort.”

“He can be as persistent as he wants. I’m _yours_ , Jaime.” Just like that, things are serious again, both of them sensing the change in the air. She raises both hands to his face, ensuring his gaze remains focused on hers so he can see the truth of her next words. “You have me. Heart and soul and… and everything.”

She is not usually like this, open and vulnerable: Jaime is keenly aware of that. On the battlefield, or training the men, she is harsh and unyielding, wearing her armour like a protective shell, but beneath the metal plates there beats a maiden’s heart. Jaime has seen both sides to her, and feels privileged to be one of only a few who have been witness to the latter. Softness should not become either of them, hardened warriors in the midst of a war, but in moments such as this they fall into it easily. He has known her gentleness and her strength, and he loves her for both in equal measure.

He is overwhelmed by a rush of emotion that he cannot impart in words; all he can do is bridge the remaining space between them to kiss her tenderly. Her hands drop away as her arms slide up and over his shoulders, and the movement brings her closer to him, creating enough space between her back and the wall for him to wrap his right arm around her. His left hand sinks into her hair, keeping her where he needs her to be.

It’s almost an echo of their first kiss, standing in an abandoned corridor in Winterfell after coming in from the cold, but there’s no armour between them now and Brienne has a much better idea of what to do with herself. His sense of imminent doom has lessened significantly; there’s far less urgency without an army of the dead looming on the horizon. Still, when he considers how much time they’ve wasted, Jaime curses himself for perhaps the hundredth time that he did not just kiss her at Riverrun and be done with it. 

They drift apart again slowly, their embrace loosening but not entirely separating from each other. Brienne’s hands drift to his shoulders, then his chest, as he disentangles his fingers from her hair and moves to cup her face instead.

“If you are mine, then… then I am definitely yours,” he tells her, and it sounds like wedding vows but he doesn’t care, because he needs her to know. “You have me, too, Brienne. You caught me at Harrenhal and you’ve had me ever since.”

It’s a testament to how much she’s had to drink that Brienne does not immediately disbelieve him. Instead, she merely smiles, a rare smile that reaches her eyes. Jaime is lost in their deep blue depths, as he has been countless times tonight, entranced by the reflection of flickering torchlight. His thumb moves almost of its own volition to brush against her mouth, words tumbling forth from his own before he has a chance to think about them.

“So beautiful.”

Her smile falters, brow furrowing as she studies his face, and before he can react she has twisted out of his hold, squeezed past him back into the open corridor and stalked away from him. Jaime wastes no time in trying to figure out the reason for her reaction, hoping he can get to the bottom of it _after_ he’s caught up with her.

He is not far behind as he follows her down the passageway, not quite able to keep up with her brisk pace, and she ignores his every effort at getting her attention, steadfast and determined to reach her destination. Within moments she has reached the door to her chambers, pushed it open just enough to slip inside and closed it behind her again with a heavy thud. Jaime almost collides with the door, Brienne’s haste creating the effect of it being slammed in his face even though he is certain that was not her intention.

By rights, since they share this room now, he could just walk in. There’s no sound of a key being turned – the door is still unlocked. He hesitates to follow that instinct, not wishing his only safe haven in the North to be tainted by an inevitable argument. No, first, he will fix whatever is wrong.

Jaime raises his hand and knocks tentatively against the panel. A muffled “Go away!” emanates from within, close enough that she must be directly on the other side of the door.

“I just want to talk,” he calls back, “and to apologise, if it’s needed.” He has to raise his voice to be heard, anxious that it will bring them both unwanted attention. “I’d rather not have to shout. At least open the door so we can speak properly – unless you want all of Winterfell to know our business.”

In the silence that follows he is absolutely certain she will refuse, try to ignore him until he goes away – but of course he is far too stubborn for that, he’ll sleep on the floor outside her chamber if necessary – until the door opens just enough for Brienne to emerge. A tendril of warmth from her fire escapes through the gap, reminding him that Winterfell’s corridors are almost as cold as everywhere else in the bloody North, and increasing his determination to end the evening as happily as it began.

Her expression is wary and guarded, and it feels like a knife in his gut that _he_ was the one to cause it, when only moments ago they had both been laying their hearts bare for each other. Now that he has the opportunity to speak to her, he realises he has no idea where to start.

“You’re a liar,” she accuses him, and words from years ago come flooding back into his brain – _curse me or kiss me or call me a liar_ – and he almost wants to laugh because she’s managed all three in the space of less than an hour.

“On what grounds would you make such a heinous judge of character?” he asks, perhaps less serious than he should be, hoping that a charm offensive might do some of the work for him. Brienne’s expression does not falter, but at least the wine has made her less reticent than usual, and she gives him an answer rather than waiting for him to figure it out.

“You said I was—“ She cuts herself off, stumbling over the word, and averts her gaze to the floor.

“Yes,” he agrees, in a softer tone. “Explain how that makes me a liar.”

It takes her some time to respond and she looks far away for a moment, lost in memory; her reaction had been instinctive, and she has to search for the root cause before she can reply. Once she has managed to formulate the right words, she bravely lifts her head to look him in the eye.

“My whole life,” she explains, “that word has been used against me: to mock me, to hurt me, to hammer into me that it was everything I would never be.” Her chin quivers, just slightly, before she regains control with a measured breath. “I learned to rise above it, eventually, and those who sought to insult me grew bored when I stopped reacting. I’d hoped those days were behind me.”

“I wasn’t trying to mock you,” he says in a reassuring tone, “or to hurt you. That was the furthest thing from my mind.” He feels a rush of savage protectiveness and a sudden desire to locate every single one of the worthless shits who made her feel this way so he can beat some manners into them, whilst understanding perfectly well that _he_ was among them, once upon a time. “Have I ever used that word against you, as you suggest?”

“No, but you had plenty of other choice words to throw at me. Or have you forgotten?”

He flinches at the recollection.

“I was lashing out,” he explains. “I know that doesn’t excuse it, but I said and did plenty of abhorrent things back then. It’s to my shame that you bore the brunt. You were only following orders.” He shakes off the memory. “When I spoke of Harrenhal earlier, I was not exaggerating. It changed everything – not just between us, but inside me.”

She fixes him with a thoughtful expression. “Had you told anyone else your secret, before me?”

“Only my brother,” he says. “And Cersei, once, but she was so heavily into her cups that she did not remember the following day. I try not to make a habit of… reliving it.”

“Why _me_?”

“Because I trusted you,” he reminds her, “and because I knew… I _hoped_ you would believe me. Because I saw in you everything I once aspired to be, and I thought… if I could only gain your trust, it might go some small way to restoring my honour, even if my name was forever tainted.”

“You didn’t need me for that, Jaime.”

“Maybe not, but you definitely gave me a shove in the right direction – and I don’t just mean literally.” He smiles, and tries to move the conversation back to the topic at hand. “Brienne, I _swear_ , I had no intention of causing you pain. My words came from a place of good intent. I may not have planned to say them, but… I meant them.”

She evidently still does not believe him, as she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Well, if you’re not lying, then you must be drunker than I thought.”

“Oh, indubitably,” he agrees. “I am very drunk and very, _very_ much in love, and both of those conditions have loosened my tongue.” Brienne relaxes a little, the corners of her mouth turning up very slightly, the wall slowly crumbling: his feelings are familiar, even if his compliments are not. “Do you know, I have never seen you smile as much as you did tonight? You should laugh more often, Brienne. It suits you.”

“I could say the same for you,” she tells him.

“Am I forgiven, then?”

“I’m… considering it.”

“Could you possibly consider it whilst I’m on the other side of that door?” he implores. “It’s really quite cold out here.”

“It’ll sober you up,” she says, outwardly serious but her eyes sparkling with amusement, and Jaime’s heart unexpectedly skips a beat, his breath hitching in his chest.

Before he can speak – not that he had figured out _what_ to say, exactly, other than a litany of romantic nonsense, no doubt – Brienne’s eyes suddenly widen in alarm. He does not get a chance to question why: she opens the door fully and drags him inside, hastily closing it after him.

“What—?“

She silences him with a hand over his mouth and gestures towards the door with her head. For a second or two, he has no idea what Brienne has heard, but then the familiar sound of heavy, booted footsteps becomes apparent, and Tormund’s voice once again resounding down the corridor. He seems maudlin now rather than angry, his words more slurred than they were and mostly indecipherable through the thick wood of the chamber door. There’s a metallic clang as he staggers into the wall and dislodges one of the torches, followed by a muffled thud a few paces later.

They remain, motionless, until Tormund has well and truly disappeared and the corridor is silent once more, and Brienne’s hand drops away. She leans back against the door, sagging in relief, reaching with practiced fingers to turn the key and lock her chamber against any intruders.

“He doesn’t know where you sleep, does he?” asks Jaime with genuine concern.

“No, thank the Gods. I’ve made very sure of that.”

His brow crumples in alarm. “You don’t think he’d—“

“No. I don’t believe— Not without _consent_.” At that, Jaime relaxes a little, and she continues: “I don’t know much about the free folk, as they call themselves, but they are not savages, and King Jon has them under control. I just… really did not relish the prospect of him trying to persuade me.”

Jaime approaches her with careful steps, slowly closing the distance.

”If I’d realised you had an admirer, I would have come here much sooner.”

She shakes her head fondly. “You’re here now, Jaime. That’s what matters.”

He is within arm’s reach, Brienne’s slumped posture against the door making them of a height.

“So, returning to the small matter of whether you’ve forgiven me…”

“I’m still considering it.”

He takes the final step, leaving only the barest of space between them, and lifts his hand to sweep an errant strand of hair away from her face, her usually neat arrangement looking delightfully tousled from their earlier activities, his gaze fixed to hers. His fingers are chilled as they trace a path behind her ear and down to her nape; she shudders, gasping in a breath in surprise, and Jaime presses his advantage by leaning forward to capture her mouth in a soft, languid kiss. 

Brienne melts, immensely grateful for the sturdy presence of the door at her back, keeping her upright; her instinct is to reach for his shoulders for support but her arms will not cooperate, hanging limply at her sides. Jaime’s thumb caresses her neck and jaw, wherever he can reach, his hand slowly warming from the contact with her skin.

Her head is starting to spin, only partially from the wine, the world becoming slightly blurry around the edges, just as Jaime pulls back from her entirely. He gives her a moment to recover, waiting for her eyes to drift open again before speaking. When she refocuses, his face is serious, but his eyes are smiling.

“What about now?”

She lets out a groan. “Gods, if I say ‘yes’ will you please stop talking?”

“Well, at least one of us has to talk, otherwise the conversation would be very boring.”

“Fine, _yes_ , I forgive you,” she mutters, exasperated, and before he can say anything else she reaches for him and pulls him flush against her, finally forcing her wine-slowed limbs to function as she drags him into another kiss. Jaime stumbles and has to brace himself against the door with his good hand until he regains his balance, belatedly remembering Brienne’s injured shoulder and not wishing to cause any further discomfort by crushing her with his unsteady weight.

Brienne is clumsy in her eagerness, their teeth clashing and foreheads almost knocking together from the awkward angle; Jaime eases her away gently with a hand against her face, smiling as an embarrassed flush slowly spreads across her skin. Brienne bites her lip, suddenly bashful at her own boldness, and that will not do at all. He leans in to claim that lip between his, kissing her slow and deep, his fingers burying themselves in her hair. Her hands clench for a moment around the open edges of his jacket, where she had seized it to bring him closer, before her arms drop and snake inside to wrap around him.

He feels the barest sting as she brushes against his still-healing wound, through the layers of bandages, shirt and jerkin. The poppy milk in Tarly’s poultice had worn off several hours ago, but the alcohol and the cold have taken some of the edge off. He can withstand a little pain if it means enjoying the strength of Brienne’s embrace; maybe he does jolt a little, though, because a moment later her arms drift lower, settling just above his hips instead.

He moves nearer, until Brienne is thoroughly trapped between him and the door, almost every inch of them pressed together. With the heat from the fireplace at his back, Brienne’s warmth along his front, Jaime finds himself wearing too many layers for comfort. He has to disentangle his hand from her hair, to try and divest himself of his jacket – it’s enough of a struggle ordinarily, nearly impossible when he is so reluctant to stop kissing her. Brienne seems to guess his intention and reaches up to assist him, pushing the heavy garment off his shoulders. He manages to free his left arm, but the jacket snags on his golden hand, and he tears himself away from her with a frustrated growl.

Unperturbed and forever practical, Brienne helps to tug the sleeve off his right arm. He throws the jacket somewhere off to the side before she can try and tidy it away, utterly unwilling to let her escape, though it seems her focus is elsewhere – her fingers move instinctively to the straps securing his false hand, but she hesitates, suddenly unsure, lifting her gaze to his.

“Should I—?”

He responds by pressing his mouth to hers, because at least five seconds have elapsed since he had to separate from her and that’s five too many. She allows him the indulgence for a brief moment before pulling back again, evading him when he tries to lean in again and pressing a hand to the centre of his chest to hold him at bay.

“I need to see what I’m doing, you fool,” she reminds him fondly, and he gives her a nod. She bows her head, both hands returning to the task. It takes much longer than usual, inebriation making her fingers uncooperative and Jaime’s insistent lips nuzzling against her temple proving something of a distraction, but eventually she manages to loosen the straps enough for the golden hand to come away. It drops to the floor with a thud, forgotten. His forearm is mottled with bruises – two days old, blurring together in shades of blue, another reminder of the battle – and she soothes them with her thumb, following them like a constellation, until she reaches his wrist and carefully traces the uneven scar where his hand had once been.

It takes her a moment to notice that Jaime has become still, and when she lifts her head again she finds him gazing at her, glassy-eyed and silent. He looks on the verge of tears, and her concern must be reflected in her face because he gives her a gentle shake of his head, communicating that nothing is wrong, before resting his forehead against hers. He breathes out, a little shaky, his tone grave and serious when he finally speaks.

“I love you.”

Brienne raises her hands to encircle his face, easing him away from her, and she tries to inject some lightness in her voice.

“Good,” she says, “because there’s nobody else I would rather be with. Only you, Jaime. Always.”

In response, he pulls her into a crushing embrace, his arms encircling her waist as he clings to her. One of her hands cradles the back of his head in a soothing gesture, her other arm holding firm across his back. A relieved shudder courses through him and he squeezes her tighter, his breath fanning across the juncture of her neck and shoulder. He breathes deeply, exhaling with a contented hum, and when he speaks again she realises that whatever darkness had temporarily overtaken him has passed.

“Gods, you smell wonderful.”

She is unable to control her blush, not just from his words but the timbre of his voice so close to her skin.

“I, um…” She clears her throat and tries again. “Scented soap. I honestly did not think I would ever use it, when Sansa gave it to me – it seemed very impractical.”

Jaime loosens his constricting hold on her, his hand and stump settling against her waist, but he keeps his cheek pressed to hers, speaking in a low tone.

“It appears I have much to be grateful to Sansa for. Remind me to thank her later.”

Before she can protest – because she can think of nothing more mortifying than such a conversation ever occurring – Jaime moves to press a kiss to her face, just below her right ear, then to her cheek, to the corner of her mouth. He brushes her upper lip, then her lower, gently teasing before moving away again, but he is diverted from his intended path by the impatient tug of Brienne’s fingers against his scalp, and he relents to give her what she wants. They kiss languorously for a long moment; Brienne finds herself once again pressed against the chamber door; her hands drift aimlessly, to Jaime’s face and his shoulders and the front of his jerkin, but her limbs feel like lead weights and she gives up the fight, allowing them to drop to her sides.

She is pliant and unprotesting when Jaime pulls back from her again and continues where he left off, his mouth finding her left cheek, then the curve of her lower jaw. Eyes still closed, Brienne lets her head fall back against the door, giving him more access as he kisses his way down her neck. Nosing the loose neckline of her shirt out of the way, he finds the pale, raised edges of the scars on her shoulder; he’d caught a glimpse of them only a few hours before, during his accidental intrusion, and has been tormented by thoughts of kissing them ever since.

When he does, Brienne jerks in surprise, then immediately dissolves again; Jaime splays his fingers at her waist, holding her steady. Her hands clench at her sides, fingernails scraping against the wood behind her, and she sighs out his name. Her heart is thundering in her chest, echoed in the erratic beat of her pulse where his lips are still pressed to her neck, and he cannot help but feel a surge of pride, as his usually stoic and composed warrior woman is reduced to a trembling mess in his arms.

The long-healed claw marks extend further, spanning Brienne’s left shoulder, but Jaime is thwarted in his efforts to follow them by the constricting fit of her jerkin. He does not have time to ponder on how to overcome that dilemma, because she reaches for his face and directs him back to her mouth, a distraction he is powerless to resist.

His hand travels almost of its own volition, from her waist to the small of her back, fingers skimming the length of her spine, her scapula, up and over her shoulder until his palm rests over her heart, his thumb tracing the line of her collarbone. She shivers from the contact but does not flinch away.

Jaime is not entirely conscious of his actions, as his hand finds the uppermost clasp of Brienne’s jerkin and he fumbles to release it from its hooked fastening. It’s only when both of her hands raise to cover his that he realises what he’s doing; for the briefest of moments, with a sinking sensation, he fully believes she is trying to prevent him from continuing, until she bats his hand away and works on the clasp herself.

He pulls away from her, in surprise, and stills her movements with his own hand, to her evident confusion.

“Please,” he says, quietly imploring. “Let me.”

She gazes at him searchingly, then nods and allows her hands to drop away. 

He can’t _not_ kiss her, for that, a brief and tender touch that soon devolves into another passionate melding of mouths, which only increases his fervent need to get her out of the damned jerkin before they both die of old age.

It transpires to be tricky, focusing on kissing her whilst making his left hand cooperate – it’s difficult enough when sober, near impossible after so much wine – but he tries valiantly to achieve both in tandem. The first clasp works free after an infuriating amount of time and effort, and he moves on to the next. Brienne is evidently fighting the urge to help, her arms held rigidly by her sides for a moment before she moves them up to encircle his face in her hands. As her fingertips scrape his beard – surely she _must_ know by now what that does to him – he falters in both of his intended purposes and temporarily abandons the jerkin to kiss her more deeply, savouring the lingering remnants of lemon sugar and Arbor Gold on her tongue. A moan rumbles from her throat and Jaime has to pull away, head reeling, to try and regain some control.

He certainly had not intended on any of this, but Brienne has continually managed to surprise him tonight and he would be the world’s biggest idiot to even think of dissuading her. Brienne is certainly more than capable of letting him know when to stop, and he’s desperately curious to see just how far he can push her.

Still, the obstacle of her jerkin remains, and he lets out a disappointed sigh.

"Regrettably,” he informs her with faux-seriousness, “I need to concentrate on this… _contraption_.” He taps his fingers gently against the third clasp. “If I still had both of my hands, this would be much quicker.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to—“

“Very sure,” he responds, setting back to the task before she can argue any further.

It’s definitely easier now he can see what he’s doing, though it feels a little awkward and overly deliberate without the preoccupation of kissing her, especially with her watching him. Halfway through, he lets out an aggrieved laugh.

“Gods above, how many of these bloody things are there?”

“Why do you think I was so late to the feast?” she asks with a smirk. Jaime chuckles at that and carries on. “Still grateful to Sansa?”

“Hm, now you mention it, I may have to take that back, just for the inconvenience. Even if it does make you look ravishing.”

She falls silent at the unexpected compliment, unsure whether to take it seriously. Jaime is so focused that it takes him a moment to realise, but as the quiet extends he lifts his head to find her looking thoughtful, even hesitant.

“What?” he asks.

“Did you mean that?”

He does not answer immediately, returning his gaze to the remaining few fastenings on the jerkin, but Brienne does not miss the knowing glint in his eyes before he looks away. Finally, the bottom-most hook releases from its accompanying catch, and Jaime insinuates his hand inside the leather to wrap around her waist. She hitches in a surprised breath at the contact, the heat from his palm almost searing through the soft linen of her shirt.

“Brienne.” He raises his head, leaning in closer and beginning a fresh trail of kisses from her cheek to her shoulder, peppering her skin intermittently as he speaks: “If you have not yet worked out … that I find you utterly beguiling … and _thoroughly_ distracting … then I am clearly doing something wrong.”

Without the constricting leather barring his path, he is able to nuzzle the collar of her tunic out of the way and press his lips to the full length of the scars at her shoulder. Her knees buckle and she almost collapses into him, stopping herself from toppling completely by bracing against his chest, and a noise escapes her that sounds almost pained, causing him to pull back with a sense of panic.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head, trying to catch her breath. “No, _Gods_ , don’t stop.”

His face lights up with a delighted grin.

“As my Lady Knight commands.”

—J|B—

There’s a pause. A hesitation, silent but for the crackle of the hearth, where the world suddenly stops and creates a flash of mutual uncertainty, which neither of them can quite find the courage to voice. The past few minutes have flown past in a blur and Jaime takes a moment to breathe and backtrack, to figure out how they got here.

_He torments her – there’s no better word for it – by the door for an indeterminate period of time, until she finally grows impatient and drags his mouth back to hers. Regaining the upper hand, she pushes him further into the room, divesting him of his own jerkin in the process and not protesting when he returns the favour. (He allows her to separate from him long enough to ensure that Sansa’s gift does not end up in a heap on the floor, immediately reeling her back in once it’s safely draped on the back of the nearest chair.) When he seeks to tug the hem of her tunic from her breeches, she does not stop him, and their kiss breaks as she helps him to yank it over her head. He groans in frustration at the thin cotton shift she wears beneath, his disappointment tangible, and she smirks and reminds him that it’s the North, it’s winter, and it’s probably just as well she wore an extra layer since some inconsiderate person dragged her out into the freezing cold less than an hour ago, and then she kisses him again and he decides not to argue. Anyway, he can still feel the shape and warmth of her through the shift, and she allows his hand to wander wherever it pleases, and maybe he can persuade her out of it later._

_T_ _hey end up at the bed, somehow, whether by accident or design, one of them leading the other or perhaps an unspoken, silent agreement, kicking off boots and almost tripping over them as they go. Brienne’s knees hit the mattress and it topples her off balance onto her back, bringing Jaime down with her. His weight knocks the air out of her as they land, and he moves away just enough for her to recover and find a more comfortable position against the pillows, before crawling the length of the bed to rejoin with her. He braces himself on his right arm as they kiss, keeping his one hand free to roam; Brienne’s shift has become untucked from her breeches and he can finally indulge in the warm smoothness of her skin. His fingers drift over the taut expanse of her belly and the outline of her lower ribs, her stomach muscles clenching in surprise before she relaxes into his touch. Before he can move any higher, she bats his hand away and pushes him back, compelling him upright. When she follows, sitting up as he settles on his knees, he realises it’s not a rejection or a signal to stop, but a means to an end: she tugs his own shirt from his waistband and drags it over his head in one smooth movement, and is leaning in to resume kissing him when something makes her pause._

And now, here they are: both halted by the remembrance that Jaime’s torso is wrapped in bandages and he is still recovering from a near-fatal injury. It cools them down as effectively as a bucket of ice water over their heads.

It’s not that they’d _forgotten_ , necessarily, just that they were too distracted to bring it to mind. To make matters worse, their brief flurry of frantic movement has aggravated his stitches and there are a few spots of fresh blood creeping through – nowhere near as bad the previous night, but the sight of it causes Brienne to bite her lip in concern.

The gravity of what was about to happen settles like snow in the space between them, the air heavy with expectation. It would be the easiest thing in the world to just bridge the gap and kiss her again, but there’s the barest hint of guilt creeping onto her face and Jaime somehow finds the willpower to be sensible.

He reaches out to place his hand over hers, where they are clasped anxiously in her lap. It distracts her from worrying, her gaze shifting to his face rather than the bandages beneath his arm. He lets out a sigh.

“I can’t quite believe I’m about to suggest this, but… maybe we should wait.”

She stares at him for a long moment, trying to make sense of his words, then nods absently.

“I… yes, you’re probably right.” Her gaze flits to the bloodstains – they have not spread any further, a small mercy. “Maester Tarly… did he say how long—? 

Jaime thinks back to what Samwell had instructed that morning. “With the poultice, if I do as he told me… it should heal enough to remove the stitches in a sennight, maybe longer.”

He hesitates to mention that even after that, Samwell has warned him off doing anything too strenuous, effectively making both sparring and manual labour impossible. If Daenerys does not want Jaime’s expertise in the war effort and he is unable make himself useful elsewhere, then has no idea how he’s going to pass the time.

Brienne nods again, then averts her gaze. She fidgets beneath his palm, hands wringing together, a subtle indication that she is giving serious thought to something.

“Is there any way…” she begins, and hesitates, and finally lifts her eyes to his again. “Couldn’t we just… be careful?”

Her suggestion strikes him like a sword to the gut and leaves him reeling. He drags his hand over his face and curses under his breath, trying to hold onto his last remaining shred of resolve.

“You will be the _death_ of me,” he tells her, taking in a deep and cleansing breath, and his next few words pour out in a rush. “Yes, we could be, and I _would be_ , but the truth is I’m actually very selfish – I want you to touch me and I want to feel every inch of your skin against mine, and neither of those things can happen whilst I’m… like this.” He expects her to be shocked, but her gaze does not falter. “I would also prefer both of us to be considerably more sober,” he adds with a hint of irony.

“I’m not so drunk that I don’t know what I want, Jaime,” she tells him pointedly.

“That’s not the reason,” he explains, and reaches to caress her face. “You deserve… better than this, frankly. At the very least, a one-handed fool who’s not _quite_ so clumsy, which is unfortunately the best I can offer.”

Her expression softens and she raises her own hand to cover his.

“Clumsy or not, you’re _my_ one-handed fool.” Drawing his hand away from her face, she links their fingers together and squeezes reassuringly. “Truly, if that’s your best, it’s still far better than any previous offer I’ve had.”

“Idiots,” he says dismissively, “every last one of them. They had no idea what they were missing.”

He casts his gaze over her appraisingly. To her dismay, Brienne feels a note of self-consciousness creeping back in, now that the fervour has died down, but she somehow resists the urge to hug her arms around herself. To do so would also mean letting go of Jaime’s hand, the only thing currently anchoring her in the moment; without it, she would be utterly adrift amidst thoughts which are already running away from her. The merest tendril of doubt is weaving into her mind; she tries to ignore it, but it takes root and will not be dislodged.

With a sigh, she averts her face, staring into her lap. Jaime can evidently sense that something is bothering her, but he allows her the time she needs to verbalise it rather than trying to coax it out of her straight away. They have been nothing but honest with each other tonight; she owes him that much.

“You don’t have to spare my feelings,” she says. “I have lived in this body my whole life and I’m more than aware of its limitations. I don’t need empty compliments, especially not from you. If you love me as you say, I know it’s not for my—“

“If!” he repeats incredulously. “ _If_ I love you? Gods, Brienne, how many times must I say it? What more can I do for you stop doubting me?”

She falls silent, chastened by his outburst, continuing to stare downwards.

“It’s not that I doubt you,” she explains. “It’s just that I’m fully expecting you to realise what you could have had instead.”

“What I left behind, you mean?” he guesses, and she gives him the barest of nods. His tone is firm when he speaks again, trying to make her understand. “That’s over. It’s done. If I never set foot in Kings Landing again, it will be too soon. There’s nothing for me there – nothing that would ever compel me to return. I have everything I need, right here.”

With Brienne’s fingers still clasped tightly in his, he has no choice but to use his stump to lift her chin; as her eyes raise to his, they are sparkling with unshed tears. He does release her hand, then, so he can pull her into his arms. She does not resist, but equally does not return the gesture, too focused on trying to rein in her emotions. He can feel her trembling as she tries to keep control.

“I can’t go back,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Not now I’ve known how it feels to be valued for who I am, instead of how much use people could make of me. That’s what you’ve given me, Brienne.”

He lets her go, lifting his hand to cup her face; she blinks, tears escaping despite her best efforts to quell them. Jaime wipes them away with his thumb, as best he can. From her intent expression, he knows she has been absorbing his words, and he should probably just keep quiet now and let her think, but his mouth is running away with him in his determination to make her understand.

“I could give you a thousand reasons why I love you,” he tells her. “Your strength, your courage, your skill with a sword, the way you dote over Podrick. Anyone who can put up with my brother for more than ten minutes, when he’s so far into his cups, is worthy of at least a little respect.” She cracks a smile at that, just barely – more of a smirk than anything, but he’ll take it. “Your laugh. Your eyes – if you didn’t know, they’re your best feature, even when you’re rolling them at me – yes, just like that. The fact that you don’t flinch away from _this_ ” – he holds up his handless arm – “and the way you kiss me, _Gods_ , do you have _any_ idea how long I’ve wanted that?”

Her smile widens a little and she tries to interject, but he has more he needs to say.

“I could go on, but the point is…” He sighs, refocuses. “More than any of that, you _see_ me. You know me, better than I know myself, at times. You make me feel like the person I wanted to be, before I killed a king for the greater good and gave the world a reason to hate me. Tell me, how could I _not_ love you, Brienne?”

Her eyes are watery now for a different reason, the quiver in her chin belying her emotions, just before she leans forward to press a kiss to his mouth. They sag against each other in relief, some of the tension leaving the air. She pulls back after a second or two, Jaime’s hand drifting away from her face as they separate. She takes a breath, steadying herself.

“Jaime, I… I don’t have a speech, or a list. I can’t even say when it started, not really, because falling for you was the easiest thing in the world. I did doubt you, at first, and sometimes this has felt like a dream that I’m terrified to wake up from. At any second, I could open my eyes and find you gone.” As she deliberates over her next words, Jaime’s fingers link with hers once more, a physical contact to prove his realness. With her free hand, she reaches up to his face. “I know that you love me, but I…” – she shakes her head, frustrated with herself – “I am so scared of disappointing you.”

Jaime stares at her for a long moment, saying nothing, and she hopes fervently that he understands her meaning, because if she has to explain it she will probably combust from embarrassment. Just when she’s considering that she might have to summon the courage to do just that, Jaime surges towards her, kissing her tenderly, but with purpose.

He pushes her backwards, his right arm wrapping around her back to cushion her descent as he presses her down to the mattress. He supports his weight on his forearms, his left hand sinking into her hair, fingers gently combing against her scalp, before it travels downwards – skimming the side of her face, her shoulder, her upper arm and then the dip of her waist. He holds it there for a while, his thumb rubbing circles on her skin beneath the edge of her shift until she relaxes, and then continues on: to her hip and then her thigh. With the merest pressure, he encourages her knee to bend, shifting himself into the space it creates. He rolls his pelvis towards hers, slow and deliberate, and is rewarded with a strangled moan and a shudder that wracks her entire body.

Somehow, he musters the self-control to drag his mouth from hers, though it grows ever more tenuous as Brienne’s eyes flutter open and she locks her gaze to his, pupils blown. His hand lingers at her waist, unable to resist the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips even though he’s certain it’s not helping either of them, before returning to the pillow at the side of her head so he can hold himself far enough away that he won’t be tempted to just kiss her senseless again.

“Do I seem _disappointed_?” he asks. Brienne huffs out a breath and shakes her head. “Good – because disappointing me is the very last thing you’d be capable of. Please do not underestimate how much I want this, Brienne.”

She studies him intently, searchingly, and he watches her expression change as she tries to make sense of everything. She lifts a hand to his face, and when he instinctively leans into the touch it’s as though the final piece clicks into place, the stars aligning and the universe making sense.

“I love you,” she tells him, and it feels like the first time all over again, a sense of relief and completeness washing over him. He turns his head, nuzzling a kiss into her palm, and then moves off her, dropping himself down beside her on the mattress. He chooses her left side, deliberately, so his one remaining hand is not trapped beneath him.

When she rolls to face him, he mirrors the position and leans in to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. His arm drifts to her side, his hand gently trailing along the curve of her spine; he intends it to be comforting, grounding, but he doesn’t miss the way her breath hitches. Her gaze is fixed, once more, on the spots of blood beneath his arm; there may be a few more, now, but he cannot regret his actions if Brienne is finally convinced of his intentions.

“A sennight?” she asks him absently.

“At least,” he reminds her.

“Then maybe we should sleep, and get a head start on tomorrow,” she suggests.

He would argue, but now that they’re both lying down he finds he does not have much inclination to get up again, and their latter conversation has left him drained. Even the smallest movement is tugging on his stitches, and Samwell’s herbal concoction has most definitely worn off. 

“That sounds very sensible,” he responds.

A slightly awkward silence descends, where they stare at each other across the pillow, until a particularly aggressive crackle from the fireplace distracts Brienne’s attention.

“The fire’s burning out,” she informs him. “I should put another log on.”

“Very diligent,” says Jaime with an ironic smirk.

“I’m not the one who’s always complaining about the cold,” she points out, and clambers off the bed to attend to the hearth.

Jaime watches her the entire time, as she restokes the fire, visibly resisting the urge to tidy up the scattered clothing on the floor. As she returns to the bed, she urges him to shift until he’s beneath the furs, retrieving his discarded tunic before sliding under the covers. She sits up to pull the shirt over her head, in a vain effort to retain some modesty, but Jaime’s hand reaches out to still her.

“Is that really necessary?” he asks. “We’ve already established I’m not going to ravish you.”

“But—”

“Do you remember my wish, before the battle?” Brienne thinks back, but she can’t quite recall, and shakes her head. “To hold you,” he reminds her, “without armour between us.”

The memory comes back to her: a moment of rare vulnerability in the hours before the fight, all the more poignant for the fact that he was so convinced he would not live to see his wish be granted. Somehow, she had known even then that he was not only referring to the metal plates. After a brief hesitation, she lowers the garment again; Jaime takes it from her entirely and casts it aside, before shuffling into a more comfortable position and lifting his arm in invitation. Brienne huddles further down under the furs and into his embrace, cushioning her head against his shoulder. He tightens his hold on her, sighing contentedly.

His hand traces the length of her arm, a trail of goosebumps rising in its wake and the slightest shiver running through her in response. Eventually, she grows more accustomed to his touch and starts to relax, her breathing becoming slower as she succumbs to sleep. Jaime allows himself the indulgence of enjoying the weight of her in his arms, the clean and subtle scent of her hair. 

The next seven days may well be the longest he has to endure in his entire life, but if they can spend every night just like this, he cannot bring himself to complain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, does this warrant a slow burn tag?
> 
> Okay, first off: I know the Stark statues are down in the crypts but I needed an excuse for the alcoves, so for the purposes of this story it's the Kings in the North who are down in the crypts and, like, slightly lower ranking Starks in the castle, or maybe Starks who have performed notable deeds. IDK, just go with it and enjoy the mood. :P
> 
> For what it's worth, this chapter was an absolute bastard to write (the sequence in Brienne's room particularly) – I had it perfectly visualised in my head but the words were uncooperative, to say the least. At one point I was averaging maybe a paragraph a day and constantly editing because I wanted to get the atmosphere just right, and then THAT LAST SECTION, oh my god, it just wouldn't get where I needed it to go. Angst gonna angst regardless of my intentions, apparently.
> 
> Anyway, what I was trying to do was tread a fine line between awkwardness, tenderness and sexual tension, peppered with their usual level of banter – so hopefully I managed that! Honestly, I have literally never written anything quite like this before and I have been staring at it far too long to be remotely objective, at this point. So, let me know if it works, or if I should just quit while I'm ahead and go back to my comfort zone of fluff…
> 
> On that note… TBTWP will happen eventually in this 'verse, I swear! Whether I actually write it, however, remains to be seen. This story has been a (s l o w) learning curve of tentative word choices and waiting for the world to implode every other sentence, so… don't hold your breath, is all I'm saying, because it is 75% likely to be a fade-to-black.


End file.
